Another day in the garage cleaning out shit. I actually managed to get dirtier this weekend than last, but another metric ton made its (unlawful) way to a local dumpster. 2 car trips, again. Felt great. I found something I've been looking for and didn't find 2 others. I fear they're gone for good. Which is a bummer but what are ya gonna do.
I ran into yet more disgusting, vile, putrid, unholy silverfish (why, God, WHY?) and discovered that little baby ones are white. Which you might think would make them less horrific but in fact it makes them more a product of Lucifer himself and I discovered that the volume of my squeals are directly related in an inverted fashion to the size of the hateful little fuckers. The smaller the bug the louder I scream. Bleh.
We also discovered a lot of stuff with chew marks. Paper, stuffed animals (grrr) boxes, old tennis shoes (again, why the fat do I keep that shit?) However, I didn't see much evidence of critters so I'm praying to the Universe and a few other deities that whatever living things that might have made their way into my garage, messing with my personal things, infringing on my life are gone, never to return. Because I might be a lover of furry creatures, but nobody fucks with me or my stuff and gets away with it.
Observe...
You're Cute Now Die
A few years ago when I was living in my last house, which happened to be a tri-level awesome kick-ass pimp pad, I was minding my own business with my doggie in our large kitchen and before my eyes I did see scurrying across the dark wood floor was a little gray mouse.
"Oh, how cute." I said to myself.
Then I said "hey, wait a minute, I'm on the third floor, how the hell did little Mr. Fuzzybutt get all the way up here?" "I know what I'll do. I'll ignore it."
And that's what I did. Until Mr.Fuzzybutt showed up with his buddy Sir Shitsalot with his gang of Shitters and Harem of Reproducing Whores and now we were in trouble.
But first, I was stupid.
A couple weeks after the first sighting and after spending those weeks pretending that I didn't have a problem, I found mouse poop in the cupboard under the sink. That's when I decided I probably needed to do something about this small little inconsequential issue I thought I might have.
Not wanting to kill a living creature I opted for a humane trap. I bought a sturdy little cage that wouldn't snap any necks, placed a little peanut butter on the trigger thing and set it under the kitchen sink.
It didn't take long and I heard a little "clink". Wow, that was quick, I must be some type of mouse whisperer. How cool am I? Problem solved, done and done. I opened the cupboard to see twitching whiskers and a shiny black nose staring back at me.
"Oh, how cute." I said to myself.
Then I gently carried the trap outside and across the street where there were no houses and flung Mr. Fuzzybutt into the bushes. Go have a nice life you little sweetie. Then I put the trap away since I wouldn't need it any more.
A few days later I was again in the kitchen and before my eyes did I see but a little gray mouse scurrying across the wood floor.
"Oh. Shit." I said to myself.
I retrieved the humane trap from the garage and set it up again. 2 minutes later I heard the "clink". I went outside and once again deposited Mr. Fuzzybutt into the bushes scratching my head and wondering to myself how the hell did he get back into the house.
A few more days after that before my eyes I did see but a little brown mouse scurrying across the wooden floor through the doorway and into the dining room.
"WTF?"
"Uh. Oh." I said to myself. That was not Mr. Fuzzybutt.
And that's when I knew I was retarded and it wasn't the same mouse I was ditching out of my house but god knows how many had set up camp in my walls.
I live-trapped mouse after mouse after mouse. Cleaned up mouse poop that got in places I still can't figure out how they managed to cram their little asses into. And finally, the trap stood empty.
For about 2 weeks.
Know what the average gestation for a mouse is? About 2 weeks.
Sitting in my kitchen, blah blah, what did my eyes see, yada yada.
"Fucking hell shit damn. Oh. My. God."
I think I trapped about 13 wobbly little babies until the trap again went silent.
For another 2 weeks.
Rinse. Repeat.
And just when I thought I was in the clear, one night I was watching TV in my bedroom, 2 full floors below the kitchen, and before my eyes I did see?
ANOTHER FUCKING MOUSE SCURRYING ACROSS THE FUCKING FLOOR 8 INCHES IN FRONT OF MY POOR ELDERLY DOGS FUCKING NOSE.
"AHHHHHH. FUCK"
Get out the live trap, BLAH BLAH!! FUCK!
But this time the little assholes were too smart for me and the trap remained empty.
Then one night, about 1:30 in the morning I was woken by a curious noise.
"Clang clang crunch crunch clang."
I got up to try and figure out what the hell that noise was and to my utter disbelief and consternation, those little bastards had stolen a gigantic chunk of dog bone left on the floor and hauled it into the fireplace in my room and were banging it away against the metal fire wall while devouring it like the pig bitches they are. Mocking me. After shutting them up by jamming my blow dryer into the crack they were hiding in, I knew what I had to do.
You mess with my sleep and your ass is mine. Motherfuckers.
The next day I bought RAT poison and killed them all.
The End.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
Gyno daze
Oh, lucky, lucky me, it's that time of year again. Time for the tit smash, the cold duck bill and the industrial-sized tube of lube. The reminder card has been sent and received and I'll make the call on Monday. Yes, Monday. I'm sure I'll dial the phone on Monday. First thing. Yep. I can't wait.
And since when do doctors send reminder cards? The only ones I know who do this are dentists and gynecologist. Dentists I understand. They are sadistic by nature and love nothing more than diving into your mouth with sharp sticks and drilling holes into your skull. You'd think full-time twat-lookers wouldn't be so eager to look at all manners of lady parts day after day. I mean, really, have you ever perched low over a hand mirror? It looks like an industrial accident down there.
I get into such a resigned mood when I have to do this. When I was a teenager and in my 20's it was no big deal. But the older I get the worse it is. You'd think it would be the opposite but noooooo, it's even more nerve-wracking now. Maybe because I know how crappy it's going to be or that for years and years I've manage to not rip one in the doctors face and I know my luck will eventually run out. Because then I will have to kill myself with a tongue depressor right then and there.
The whole thing is so bizarre. Hi, I don't know you, would you like to see my vagina? And it's bad enough you already have a paper gown on the size of a McDonald's napkin but when you finally put your feet in the stirrups they make you move down, move down please, move a little further, down a little more, just a little more, scoot just a little more. Until you're positively sure you're cooter is right on top of the doctors nose and your asshole is winking to the beat of My Sharona in anticipation of the big poopshoot invasion.
Nakedness, weird positions, boob handling, finger bangs, spreading legs, gallons and gallons of grease, and not even dinner first. WTF?
Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer I have to get mammograms too. Now that is an experience. Hi, I don't know you, would you like to fondle my tits? Someone asked me once what it felt like and I instructed her to take her top and bra off, lay down on the floor of the garage, get her husband pull her tits across the ground as far as they will go, then slam the garage door down on top of them about 5 times each. That's about it.
The first time I had the pleasure I told the technician, "listen, lady, I like it rough but this is ri-goddamndiculous." Thankfully she laughed. I tried that same joke last year on another tech and Atilla the Bunned didn't even smirk, and I think she pinched my nipple on purpose.
But we know how important it all is. Women have to stay on top of these things and take control of their health because most of the money is going to the drug research companies making sure dicks can stay hard for 3 straight years and to perfect the transfer of knuckle hair into head hair. But that's a soapbox for another time.
So, we all know it sucks and you walk out of there leaving snail tracks down the hallway, your boobs spend a little time looking like a flesh-cake, and a virtual stranger gets intimate with your crinkle star, but you gotta do it, alright? You GOTTA DO IT. Take care of your pussy, don't be one.
I am calling on Monday.
And since when do doctors send reminder cards? The only ones I know who do this are dentists and gynecologist. Dentists I understand. They are sadistic by nature and love nothing more than diving into your mouth with sharp sticks and drilling holes into your skull. You'd think full-time twat-lookers wouldn't be so eager to look at all manners of lady parts day after day. I mean, really, have you ever perched low over a hand mirror? It looks like an industrial accident down there.
I get into such a resigned mood when I have to do this. When I was a teenager and in my 20's it was no big deal. But the older I get the worse it is. You'd think it would be the opposite but noooooo, it's even more nerve-wracking now. Maybe because I know how crappy it's going to be or that for years and years I've manage to not rip one in the doctors face and I know my luck will eventually run out. Because then I will have to kill myself with a tongue depressor right then and there.
The whole thing is so bizarre. Hi, I don't know you, would you like to see my vagina? And it's bad enough you already have a paper gown on the size of a McDonald's napkin but when you finally put your feet in the stirrups they make you move down, move down please, move a little further, down a little more, just a little more, scoot just a little more. Until you're positively sure you're cooter is right on top of the doctors nose and your asshole is winking to the beat of My Sharona in anticipation of the big poopshoot invasion.
Nakedness, weird positions, boob handling, finger bangs, spreading legs, gallons and gallons of grease, and not even dinner first. WTF?
Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer I have to get mammograms too. Now that is an experience. Hi, I don't know you, would you like to fondle my tits? Someone asked me once what it felt like and I instructed her to take her top and bra off, lay down on the floor of the garage, get her husband pull her tits across the ground as far as they will go, then slam the garage door down on top of them about 5 times each. That's about it.
The first time I had the pleasure I told the technician, "listen, lady, I like it rough but this is ri-goddamndiculous." Thankfully she laughed. I tried that same joke last year on another tech and Atilla the Bunned didn't even smirk, and I think she pinched my nipple on purpose.
But we know how important it all is. Women have to stay on top of these things and take control of their health because most of the money is going to the drug research companies making sure dicks can stay hard for 3 straight years and to perfect the transfer of knuckle hair into head hair. But that's a soapbox for another time.
So, we all know it sucks and you walk out of there leaving snail tracks down the hallway, your boobs spend a little time looking like a flesh-cake, and a virtual stranger gets intimate with your crinkle star, but you gotta do it, alright? You GOTTA DO IT. Take care of your pussy, don't be one.
I am calling on Monday.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Oh, alright. I'll take it.
So. Mr. Clooney is once again People's choice for sexiest man alive.
OK. I get it. He's been in my top 5 for a looooooong time. He's charming and unapologetic and can smell a dumbass from a mile away through that perfect little nose of his that rests on top of a manly chiseled chin which rounds out his handsome, always slightly smirking face. But come on. People totally launched a soggy softball with this one. I can think of quite a few others a tad more deserving of this completely vapid yet entertaining contest.
For example:
Patrick Dempsey. Who , by the miracle of time and good genes went from this:
To this:
I'm pissed like a wet cat that I didn't get on the Grey's Anatomy bandwagon and now I'm desperately out of the loop and refuse to watch any episodes from this year until I borrow the first 2 seasons on DVD from my friend and park my tryptophan-ladened ass in front of the TV over the 4 day Thanksgiving weekend and get at least caught up until I can watch reruns of the news ones in the Spring. Doctor McDreamy and a pumpkin cheesecake all to myself? Talk about multiple orgasms.
And what about this guy?
He a man. He a real man. He real dirty man, but no bother. He's fricken hot! And funny! And manly. I would have liked to see Mike Rowe grace the cover of People with a tuxedo and a pile of dead fish. So he hasn't started a global campaign to fight a deadly disease, he's still hot. He'd make you laugh until you peed then he'd clean you up because he it not afraid of a little pee. He's not afraid of a giant elephant-sized tidlewave of pee. You just know all of his t-shirts smell like sweet sweat and expensive cologne. (And hopefuly not pee.)
Of course the editors of People could never, never, ever, EVER go wrong with the one and only numero uno crush of my life (besides whitey) beautiful perfect talented smoldering could sip hot soup from my bare hands man. ~sigh~ Hi, Johnny! Need I say more? No, I needn't.
Even though I'm not jumping for joy over the choice of The Clooney, I'll put on a brave face and gently finger through the magazine when it gets here on Friday and give every single male on every single page my utmost attention. It's the least I can do. Right? Right.
Speaking of crushes...I've had my fair share. I appreciate a nice face, a thick pair of thighs, and a kick'n personality, as we all do. Whitey has his porn girls and I have my entertainers. Occasionally I'll foray into another medium, like reality TV stars. Mark from the original Road Rules still blows my dress up even though he's probably working at Home Depot when he's not on some ridiculous MTV challenge, he's still fair game for the inner teenager who runs at least half of my brain.
Most of the time I have good taste. Make rational choices. Pine over decent people. All perfectly innocent, mind you, since it's all fake, daydreamy stuff anyway that we all do. We admire Brad Pitt with long hair or short, Matthew McConaughey playing bongos in the nude, and Taye Digs with his rock-hard abs. All good, yes?
Well, sometimes I, um, lose my mind a little. I get a teeny, tiny bit crazed over a questionable icon. A very, small, miniscule, hardly noticeable obession. Now and then I might pay a lot of money to get as close as possible to a very embarassing person I have, for reasons unknown to me or anyone else on the planet except elderly ladies, those from the South or gay men, a microscopic adoration for.
And perhaps, once in awhile I might purchase a t-shirt and a poster then wait outside a venue until the special person finally comes out 2 hours later to ask for an autograph I don't even want watching him scribble the wrong name because I couldn't form a coherent sentence when they asked me, on the aforementioned poster just so I can come within a few scant feet of the person.
Occasionally, I'm insane.
But I get over it! OK! I GET OVER IT!
I SAID I GOT OVER IT!!
I totally got over it.
Shut up.
"Keep on dancin', Buddy"
OK. I get it. He's been in my top 5 for a looooooong time. He's charming and unapologetic and can smell a dumbass from a mile away through that perfect little nose of his that rests on top of a manly chiseled chin which rounds out his handsome, always slightly smirking face. But come on. People totally launched a soggy softball with this one. I can think of quite a few others a tad more deserving of this completely vapid yet entertaining contest.
For example:
Patrick Dempsey. Who , by the miracle of time and good genes went from this:
To this:
I'm pissed like a wet cat that I didn't get on the Grey's Anatomy bandwagon and now I'm desperately out of the loop and refuse to watch any episodes from this year until I borrow the first 2 seasons on DVD from my friend and park my tryptophan-ladened ass in front of the TV over the 4 day Thanksgiving weekend and get at least caught up until I can watch reruns of the news ones in the Spring. Doctor McDreamy and a pumpkin cheesecake all to myself? Talk about multiple orgasms.
And what about this guy?
He a man. He a real man. He real dirty man, but no bother. He's fricken hot! And funny! And manly. I would have liked to see Mike Rowe grace the cover of People with a tuxedo and a pile of dead fish. So he hasn't started a global campaign to fight a deadly disease, he's still hot. He'd make you laugh until you peed then he'd clean you up because he it not afraid of a little pee. He's not afraid of a giant elephant-sized tidlewave of pee. You just know all of his t-shirts smell like sweet sweat and expensive cologne. (And hopefuly not pee.)
Of course the editors of People could never, never, ever, EVER go wrong with the one and only numero uno crush of my life (besides whitey) beautiful perfect talented smoldering could sip hot soup from my bare hands man. ~sigh~ Hi, Johnny! Need I say more? No, I needn't.
Even though I'm not jumping for joy over the choice of The Clooney, I'll put on a brave face and gently finger through the magazine when it gets here on Friday and give every single male on every single page my utmost attention. It's the least I can do. Right? Right.
Speaking of crushes...I've had my fair share. I appreciate a nice face, a thick pair of thighs, and a kick'n personality, as we all do. Whitey has his porn girls and I have my entertainers. Occasionally I'll foray into another medium, like reality TV stars. Mark from the original Road Rules still blows my dress up even though he's probably working at Home Depot when he's not on some ridiculous MTV challenge, he's still fair game for the inner teenager who runs at least half of my brain.
Most of the time I have good taste. Make rational choices. Pine over decent people. All perfectly innocent, mind you, since it's all fake, daydreamy stuff anyway that we all do. We admire Brad Pitt with long hair or short, Matthew McConaughey playing bongos in the nude, and Taye Digs with his rock-hard abs. All good, yes?
Well, sometimes I, um, lose my mind a little. I get a teeny, tiny bit crazed over a questionable icon. A very, small, miniscule, hardly noticeable obession. Now and then I might pay a lot of money to get as close as possible to a very embarassing person I have, for reasons unknown to me or anyone else on the planet except elderly ladies, those from the South or gay men, a microscopic adoration for.
And perhaps, once in awhile I might purchase a t-shirt and a poster then wait outside a venue until the special person finally comes out 2 hours later to ask for an autograph I don't even want watching him scribble the wrong name because I couldn't form a coherent sentence when they asked me, on the aforementioned poster just so I can come within a few scant feet of the person.
Occasionally, I'm insane.
But I get over it! OK! I GET OVER IT!
I SAID I GOT OVER IT!!
I totally got over it.
Shut up.
"Keep on dancin', Buddy"
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Winking wankers
Fucking winkers. Don't wink at me. I don't know you like that. We don't have an unspoken thing. There's no secret. No telepathic inside joke. No simpatico, you fucking freak.
You trying to be sly? You attempting to give me some kind of hint that I'll know what the fuck you mean? Just what are you trying to tell me? Little Jimmy fell down the well? The eagle has landed? How yoooooou doin'?
What is that? Who does that? The sleezeballs and dorks, that's who. But whatever it is I don't care. I don't want to know. I want no part of your creepy, patronizing, 70's porn star insincere facial tick. It's weird. And icky. And frankly, it pisses me off. You might as well pat me on the head, of which you'll pull back a bloody stump, you smarmy fucking bastard.
Unless you have tourette's or a twitch, ENOUGH WITH THE WINKING!! You just leave that winking eye alone, Winker Winkerson. Blink like a normal person. Both eyes at the same god damn time.
And sweet fancy Moses, don't pair a fucking wink with double fucking finger guns. Fuck!
You trying to be sly? You attempting to give me some kind of hint that I'll know what the fuck you mean? Just what are you trying to tell me? Little Jimmy fell down the well? The eagle has landed? How yoooooou doin'?
What is that? Who does that? The sleezeballs and dorks, that's who. But whatever it is I don't care. I don't want to know. I want no part of your creepy, patronizing, 70's porn star insincere facial tick. It's weird. And icky. And frankly, it pisses me off. You might as well pat me on the head, of which you'll pull back a bloody stump, you smarmy fucking bastard.
Unless you have tourette's or a twitch, ENOUGH WITH THE WINKING!! You just leave that winking eye alone, Winker Winkerson. Blink like a normal person. Both eyes at the same god damn time.
And sweet fancy Moses, don't pair a fucking wink with double fucking finger guns. Fuck!
Monday, November 13, 2006
My quirks are cute
Perfectly reasonable normal rational understandable ordinary healthy natural typical regular totally and completely sane fears.
That I have.
Which could kill me.
Yes they could.
Drowning
Plane crash
Car accident
Headless horseman
Murdered
House fire
Falling off cliff
Spontaneously springing over high-rise balcony
Tripping off subway platform and run over by train
Ron Jeremy
Eaten by grizzly bear
Water heater explosion
Choking on food
Asthma attack
Bumping into Courtney Love
Killer bees
Rattlesnake bite
Roller coaster derail
Cave collapse
Trampled by mob at Nordstrom anniversary sale
Cancer
Losing eye walking past sharp clothing rack arm
Possessed scarecrow
Boulder rolls onto my non-dominate hand while hiking
Credit card debt
Poisoned after accidentally using Tilex as shampoo
Cell phone triggered gas pump explosion
Aliens
Zombies
Michael Jackson
Giant squid
Stroke
Snapped elevator cable
Flesh eating disease
Earthquake
Tidal wave
Giant man-eating house spider
Thing under my bed
Silverfish
Clowns
Crazy-eyed hospital orderly
Lake monster
And now THIS!
That I have.
Which could kill me.
Yes they could.
Drowning
Plane crash
Car accident
Headless horseman
Murdered
House fire
Falling off cliff
Spontaneously springing over high-rise balcony
Tripping off subway platform and run over by train
Ron Jeremy
Eaten by grizzly bear
Water heater explosion
Choking on food
Asthma attack
Bumping into Courtney Love
Killer bees
Rattlesnake bite
Roller coaster derail
Cave collapse
Trampled by mob at Nordstrom anniversary sale
Cancer
Losing eye walking past sharp clothing rack arm
Possessed scarecrow
Boulder rolls onto my non-dominate hand while hiking
Credit card debt
Poisoned after accidentally using Tilex as shampoo
Cell phone triggered gas pump explosion
Aliens
Zombies
Michael Jackson
Giant squid
Stroke
Snapped elevator cable
Flesh eating disease
Earthquake
Tidal wave
Giant man-eating house spider
Thing under my bed
Silverfish
Clowns
Crazy-eyed hospital orderly
Lake monster
And now THIS!
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Sunday dane bramage
For the life of me I can't think of a decent topic to write about today. I'm so distracted and into this organizing/pre-moving/cleaning-out stuff that my brain was put on auto-pilot at 5:30 this morning and I didn't snap out of it until I realized that I'd trapped myself inside the guest room by piling up garage sale shit in front of the door. And I still kept going and going and going until my back said, "hey bitch, SIT DOWN."
I was going to finish up and spend the rest of the day relaxing but here I am, three hours later and I'm finally taking a break. But it all feels good. Well, almost all. Dropping the fucking printer on my toe and getting the sliver of glass in my pinkie didn't feel good. Although, despite my self-injurious nature, I got a ton and half done. My mother would be so proud of me. For at least 5 whole minutes. Heh.
_______________________________________________________
Why do I come across and watch the same 20 minutes of the same movie playing 5 times in the same weekend? How does that happen? What is the universe trying to tell me? That I'm being punished for being naughty with stupid movies as my only choice for my day off or that I'm being rewarded for some good deed I've undoubtedly done by seeing Brendan Frasier's oily pecs circa 1999 fighting mummies with a bullwhip? Eh, I'll take the latter. Thanks, Universe!
_______________________________________________________
Since this is rather lame and skimpy on the content today I will give you a movie review.
Last night we watched Nacho Libre starring the comic genius that is Jack Black, whom I adore. I had mediocre hopes for this flick since I've heard both good and bad things about it so I figured it would fall somewhere in the middle. Not a bust-a-gut, not a shit hole. More of an occasional laugh outloud, a few guffaws, and long periods of silence. And for the most part I was right. It had all three but more periods of long silence than I thought it would.
I'm not sure what Jack was going for, besides the obvious hilarity, but this one falls way short. Before the movie starts you get a big flash of the Nickelodian logo so I knew right away they were catering to kids more than anything else. Kids who like wrestling and farts.
And hey! I like farts too! Well, I don't like farts but I do think they're funny. A well-placed ripper is always worth a laugh from me. (Except When they're launched by a certain someone in a silent-but-deadly sneak attack in the confines of my garage where it hits me in the face with full-punch force and doesn't disapate for 10 whole minutes.) But a whole movie can't rest on gastrointestinal eruptions alone.
The bad things about this movie: It wasn't near funny enough. There was some stupid, weirdo crossed-eyed old guy they flashed on in audience scenes about a hundred fucking times and you never knew why or who this stupid guy was. (So annoying.) Jack's wrestling partner guy was painfully fugly and hard to look at. And there were lame-ass sound effects added that never, ever work unless they're in an actual cartoon. Ix-nay on the aim-lay oises-nay. Okay?
The good things about this movie: Well placed poots. Jack does manage to make you laugh outloud more than once and one time I was pretty loud about it. It makes you appreciate his talent. Um, I can't think of 4 good things so you'll have to be satisfied with 3.
All-in-all I say don't even get this on Netflix, Pay-per-view, or at the rental store. Wait until it's on HBO or regular TV. You won't be put off of Jack Black for good because of this 65% stinker, but anything less than 50% funny shouldn't cost you a dime.
Jack redeems himself here. Be careful, there's a-cussin' in this one.
I was going to finish up and spend the rest of the day relaxing but here I am, three hours later and I'm finally taking a break. But it all feels good. Well, almost all. Dropping the fucking printer on my toe and getting the sliver of glass in my pinkie didn't feel good. Although, despite my self-injurious nature, I got a ton and half done. My mother would be so proud of me. For at least 5 whole minutes. Heh.
_______________________________________________________
Why do I come across and watch the same 20 minutes of the same movie playing 5 times in the same weekend? How does that happen? What is the universe trying to tell me? That I'm being punished for being naughty with stupid movies as my only choice for my day off or that I'm being rewarded for some good deed I've undoubtedly done by seeing Brendan Frasier's oily pecs circa 1999 fighting mummies with a bullwhip? Eh, I'll take the latter. Thanks, Universe!
_______________________________________________________
Since this is rather lame and skimpy on the content today I will give you a movie review.
Last night we watched Nacho Libre starring the comic genius that is Jack Black, whom I adore. I had mediocre hopes for this flick since I've heard both good and bad things about it so I figured it would fall somewhere in the middle. Not a bust-a-gut, not a shit hole. More of an occasional laugh outloud, a few guffaws, and long periods of silence. And for the most part I was right. It had all three but more periods of long silence than I thought it would.
I'm not sure what Jack was going for, besides the obvious hilarity, but this one falls way short. Before the movie starts you get a big flash of the Nickelodian logo so I knew right away they were catering to kids more than anything else. Kids who like wrestling and farts.
And hey! I like farts too! Well, I don't like farts but I do think they're funny. A well-placed ripper is always worth a laugh from me. (Except When they're launched by a certain someone in a silent-but-deadly sneak attack in the confines of my garage where it hits me in the face with full-punch force and doesn't disapate for 10 whole minutes.) But a whole movie can't rest on gastrointestinal eruptions alone.
The bad things about this movie: It wasn't near funny enough. There was some stupid, weirdo crossed-eyed old guy they flashed on in audience scenes about a hundred fucking times and you never knew why or who this stupid guy was. (So annoying.) Jack's wrestling partner guy was painfully fugly and hard to look at. And there were lame-ass sound effects added that never, ever work unless they're in an actual cartoon. Ix-nay on the aim-lay oises-nay. Okay?
The good things about this movie: Well placed poots. Jack does manage to make you laugh outloud more than once and one time I was pretty loud about it. It makes you appreciate his talent. Um, I can't think of 4 good things so you'll have to be satisfied with 3.
All-in-all I say don't even get this on Netflix, Pay-per-view, or at the rental store. Wait until it's on HBO or regular TV. You won't be put off of Jack Black for good because of this 65% stinker, but anything less than 50% funny shouldn't cost you a dime.
Jack redeems himself here. Be careful, there's a-cussin' in this one.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
As time goes by
I just spent about 3 hours cleaning out a portion of my one car garage. My one car garage that has enough shit in it for a 3 car garage, minus the cars. It was dirty and smelly and why, God? Why the silverfish? What purpose do they serve other than eating my precious paper memories and making me squeal with revulsion.
I'm fairly certain one of them made me have a seizure.
In anticipation of putting my condo on the market in January (we've chosen Portland, OR since I keep forgetting to mention that), my condo that is also stuffed to the hilt with crap, I decided we needed to make some room out in the garage before we can do a crap transfer from the house to the garage. (That was one weirdly awkward sentence, sorry.) But before we even got started on that, and despite my ~cough~ debilitating illness, I was up early enough to drag whitey out of bed and to a local discount center we'll call Hellmart to buy more large storage containers to put said crap in. I have been very industrious today for a sick person.
It needed to be done anyway but several factors this week in particular has put the idea of moving as a definite thing. A co-workers husband rendered himself paralyzed from the neck down last weekend from trying to ride a neighbors crotch-rocket motorcycle and after a day of drinking. And another teenager done got himself killed driving his car too fast and into a tree a couple of miles from my house.
After getting the devastating updates about co-workers hubby, and driving past the killer tree every day and seeing hundreds of flowers and kids slumped over on the median crying over their friend, and from sitting in the god damn fuck ass traffic for an hour and a half every night to try and make the 18 mile trek home from work, I've had enough. Time to suck it up and stop being a sissy girl and take the plunge.
I came home on Thursday and said, "Baby, we're going. We're moving just as soon as we can get this house in order and sell it. We're cleaning out the the garage on Saturday working our way through everything else. We're going to Portland sight unseen if we have to. I love you and life is too short. We need a change. We need to carve out a better life to be happier. To be in the position to have the things we want. I need to do something that scares me. Just wanted to keep you in the loop." Then he laughed and said, OK.
And speaking of scary, back to the garage. Let me tell you, it was gee-roce. I threw away a lot of stuff that I could probably sell in a yard sale or give away or keep, but it was so covered with icky garage gunk from sitting there for the last 8 years that I gingerly picked things up with my garden-gloved covered hands and tossed them into garbage bags. And even worse than that, some type of critter (I'm praying it was a bunny) used my space as their own personal penthouse and the, uh, evidence was everywhere.
I'm convinced I now have hantavirus.
I knew what a lot of the boxes and bags contained but after so much time you forget what's really there. It was fun to come across my coveted Barbie camper, which I stupidly covered in stickers thus ruining it because my brain was made of cheese, and the United Barbie's Friend Ship airplane that no other little girl I knew had. I was such a pimp.
I revisited a few of my stuffed animals, thanks for eating the nose off one of my brown bears, "bunny." And found a box of my old school papers and such, complete with report cards. Man, I was a shitty student some of the time. Putting in effort when I felt like it. I'm not dumb, but I can make some lame decisions. I had A+ papers right next to F's. No wonder my parents gave up hounding me about school. What a turd I was.
It was hard work and DIRTY, (where's Mike Rowe when I need him?!?) But it was also fun. Especially when I came across a pile of old clothes and unmentionables that I have no earthly fucking idea why I was holding onto and whitey coined the phrase "20 year-old cunt stain." Let your imagine fly with that one. We're still laughing about it 2 hours later.
I got rid of the equivalent of 6 large trash bags of shit and it wasn't really hard to let any of it go. In fact, it gets easier every time I do this. It also felt good to be one more step towards organization, that elusive little bastard I'm always chasing. And most of all, it made me excited to move. To have a place all our own that we start out together, no one moving in with anyone else. To get our own special spaces decorated with our own personal treasures and to make the shared rooms exactly that way we want them. To make a new life in new place with the person you love. To create a home.
I'm positive this is the right thing to do.
I'm fairly certain one of them made me have a seizure.
In anticipation of putting my condo on the market in January (we've chosen Portland, OR since I keep forgetting to mention that), my condo that is also stuffed to the hilt with crap, I decided we needed to make some room out in the garage before we can do a crap transfer from the house to the garage. (That was one weirdly awkward sentence, sorry.) But before we even got started on that, and despite my ~cough~ debilitating illness, I was up early enough to drag whitey out of bed and to a local discount center we'll call Hellmart to buy more large storage containers to put said crap in. I have been very industrious today for a sick person.
It needed to be done anyway but several factors this week in particular has put the idea of moving as a definite thing. A co-workers husband rendered himself paralyzed from the neck down last weekend from trying to ride a neighbors crotch-rocket motorcycle and after a day of drinking. And another teenager done got himself killed driving his car too fast and into a tree a couple of miles from my house.
After getting the devastating updates about co-workers hubby, and driving past the killer tree every day and seeing hundreds of flowers and kids slumped over on the median crying over their friend, and from sitting in the god damn fuck ass traffic for an hour and a half every night to try and make the 18 mile trek home from work, I've had enough. Time to suck it up and stop being a sissy girl and take the plunge.
I came home on Thursday and said, "Baby, we're going. We're moving just as soon as we can get this house in order and sell it. We're cleaning out the the garage on Saturday working our way through everything else. We're going to Portland sight unseen if we have to. I love you and life is too short. We need a change. We need to carve out a better life to be happier. To be in the position to have the things we want. I need to do something that scares me. Just wanted to keep you in the loop." Then he laughed and said, OK.
And speaking of scary, back to the garage. Let me tell you, it was gee-roce. I threw away a lot of stuff that I could probably sell in a yard sale or give away or keep, but it was so covered with icky garage gunk from sitting there for the last 8 years that I gingerly picked things up with my garden-gloved covered hands and tossed them into garbage bags. And even worse than that, some type of critter (I'm praying it was a bunny) used my space as their own personal penthouse and the, uh, evidence was everywhere.
I'm convinced I now have hantavirus.
I knew what a lot of the boxes and bags contained but after so much time you forget what's really there. It was fun to come across my coveted Barbie camper, which I stupidly covered in stickers thus ruining it because my brain was made of cheese, and the United Barbie's Friend Ship airplane that no other little girl I knew had. I was such a pimp.
I revisited a few of my stuffed animals, thanks for eating the nose off one of my brown bears, "bunny." And found a box of my old school papers and such, complete with report cards. Man, I was a shitty student some of the time. Putting in effort when I felt like it. I'm not dumb, but I can make some lame decisions. I had A+ papers right next to F's. No wonder my parents gave up hounding me about school. What a turd I was.
It was hard work and DIRTY, (where's Mike Rowe when I need him?!?) But it was also fun. Especially when I came across a pile of old clothes and unmentionables that I have no earthly fucking idea why I was holding onto and whitey coined the phrase "20 year-old cunt stain." Let your imagine fly with that one. We're still laughing about it 2 hours later.
I got rid of the equivalent of 6 large trash bags of shit and it wasn't really hard to let any of it go. In fact, it gets easier every time I do this. It also felt good to be one more step towards organization, that elusive little bastard I'm always chasing. And most of all, it made me excited to move. To have a place all our own that we start out together, no one moving in with anyone else. To get our own special spaces decorated with our own personal treasures and to make the shared rooms exactly that way we want them. To make a new life in new place with the person you love. To create a home.
I'm positive this is the right thing to do.
Friday, November 10, 2006
It's beginning to look a lot like crazy
Oh dear. It's not even halfway past November yet and it's already started. It's been creeping into my psyche for a few weeks now, after a long, long absence. I can't fight it anymore. I used to be into it. Really into it. Then I wasn't into it at all and actually rebuked it pretty hard core. Then I became neutral about it. Until now.
I'm obsessed with X-mas. It's sickening. And I think it's going to get nothing but worse. I have a bad feeling the house will smell like pine before Thanksgiving and then we're going to have a pine tree/turkey aroma battle and that turkey is going to win and the living room will eventually smell like cold meat. I fear that flannel will find its way into my house. Things are going to be wrapped in tinsel.
I suppose this is a natural progression of things. When you're single it doesn't much matter if you simmer cinnamon potpourri on the stove or have a gallon of eggnog in the fridge. But when you have a significant other, or in my case a boyfriend, some psychotic girlfriend DNA is sparked to life at the first roll of holiday wrapping paper you see and you get all crafty, hand-making him a stocking decorated with glitter fabric pens and stuffing it full of his favorite things like skittles and porn.
You dress in red and green and don godforsaken necklaces adorned with mini wooden clothespin reindeers given to you by your crazy Aunt Agnes which would normally be a repulsive, suck-ass loser gift you wouldn't wear unless your mother draped it over your fresh corpse with that blackwatch plaid skirt you hate but now seems like a really god damn good idea. Which, it is not, but you're blinded by the ever-present twinkling lights and Christmas muzak pumping through the mall and exceptionally stupid things become, well, non stupid.
But, pft, I'm way past that kind of nonsense. I'm older now. I've done the hyper holiday hoor thing. I won't be spending any of the big celebrations coming up with family, it'll just be me and my man. And yet. I can't stop thinking about it. If I keep this up I'm on track to become some trash-mouth Martha Stewart making placecards for the cat's food bowl out of twigs and orange rind and sending whitey onto the roof to hang a string of blue icicle lights around an animatronic Santa's wang.
My advertisement saturation level is becoming astounding. Not only am I collecting every random catalog that I can get my hands on but I'm stealing them from work. Well! People shouldn't leave those things out plain-as-day on their desks. It's practically an engraved invitation for me to take it. And I'm pouring through every piece of drugstore junkmail stuffed into my mailbox. I've started a gift idea list for people I don't even like.
And, I'm ashamed to say, I've been making a game plan for shopping on Black Friday. A game plan. Not even a casual, maybe I'll hit some stores when I wake up, thing. I'm talking about checking out the multiple websites that (illegally, legally, I don't careily) get hold of stolen store flyers and post rumors of sales. All so I can map out the most sensible driving route and deciding if I want to wake up at 5:00 or 5:30. In the morning. Just so I can get a fake, pre-strung with lights Christmas tree for $29.00 dollars off the original price.
Poor whitey. He's starting to look at me like I've grown another head on top of the already crazy one I have. A head wearing an animal print Santa hat and jingle bell earings. He doesn't give half a wit about this shit but he's such a good guy that I know when I come skipping through the front door and spill a shopping bag full of glittery accessories and Christmacy crap at his feet he'll muster up a smile and give me his full attention when I shove the 4 foot dancing penguin with the knitted scarf in his face and he'll repeat, "yes, babe, it is cute."
No one is safe now.
I'm obsessed with X-mas. It's sickening. And I think it's going to get nothing but worse. I have a bad feeling the house will smell like pine before Thanksgiving and then we're going to have a pine tree/turkey aroma battle and that turkey is going to win and the living room will eventually smell like cold meat. I fear that flannel will find its way into my house. Things are going to be wrapped in tinsel.
I suppose this is a natural progression of things. When you're single it doesn't much matter if you simmer cinnamon potpourri on the stove or have a gallon of eggnog in the fridge. But when you have a significant other, or in my case a boyfriend, some psychotic girlfriend DNA is sparked to life at the first roll of holiday wrapping paper you see and you get all crafty, hand-making him a stocking decorated with glitter fabric pens and stuffing it full of his favorite things like skittles and porn.
You dress in red and green and don godforsaken necklaces adorned with mini wooden clothespin reindeers given to you by your crazy Aunt Agnes which would normally be a repulsive, suck-ass loser gift you wouldn't wear unless your mother draped it over your fresh corpse with that blackwatch plaid skirt you hate but now seems like a really god damn good idea. Which, it is not, but you're blinded by the ever-present twinkling lights and Christmas muzak pumping through the mall and exceptionally stupid things become, well, non stupid.
But, pft, I'm way past that kind of nonsense. I'm older now. I've done the hyper holiday hoor thing. I won't be spending any of the big celebrations coming up with family, it'll just be me and my man. And yet. I can't stop thinking about it. If I keep this up I'm on track to become some trash-mouth Martha Stewart making placecards for the cat's food bowl out of twigs and orange rind and sending whitey onto the roof to hang a string of blue icicle lights around an animatronic Santa's wang.
My advertisement saturation level is becoming astounding. Not only am I collecting every random catalog that I can get my hands on but I'm stealing them from work. Well! People shouldn't leave those things out plain-as-day on their desks. It's practically an engraved invitation for me to take it. And I'm pouring through every piece of drugstore junkmail stuffed into my mailbox. I've started a gift idea list for people I don't even like.
And, I'm ashamed to say, I've been making a game plan for shopping on Black Friday. A game plan. Not even a casual, maybe I'll hit some stores when I wake up, thing. I'm talking about checking out the multiple websites that (illegally, legally, I don't careily) get hold of stolen store flyers and post rumors of sales. All so I can map out the most sensible driving route and deciding if I want to wake up at 5:00 or 5:30. In the morning. Just so I can get a fake, pre-strung with lights Christmas tree for $29.00 dollars off the original price.
Poor whitey. He's starting to look at me like I've grown another head on top of the already crazy one I have. A head wearing an animal print Santa hat and jingle bell earings. He doesn't give half a wit about this shit but he's such a good guy that I know when I come skipping through the front door and spill a shopping bag full of glittery accessories and Christmacy crap at his feet he'll muster up a smile and give me his full attention when I shove the 4 foot dancing penguin with the knitted scarf in his face and he'll repeat, "yes, babe, it is cute."
No one is safe now.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Bass be da keeness peas
And so it started today...
~sniffle~
Dammit.
Snot running down
~cough~
Shoot.
Chest feeling tight.
~gulp~
Fuck.
Razors in throat.
~ow~
Shit.
Painful ear.
Crap. Crap. Crappity crap.
(That one was a comment not an action.)
I would like to know which non-handwashing bitch pig at my office put their infected hands all over the doorknob to the bathroom thus passing on their nasty germs to me. What rotten little ankle biter spewed their foul contagiousness into my refreshing clean virus-free air. Who poisoned me with their petulant putrid polluted pestilent plague.
When I find out I'm going to kick. Your ass. Or breathe on you. Or make you eat one of my used tissues. Just as soon as I get over this noxious scourge I'm undoubtedly coming down with. A pox on you, filthy illness passer. A POX!
~sneeze~
~sniffle~
Dammit.
Snot running down
~cough~
Shoot.
Chest feeling tight.
~gulp~
Fuck.
Razors in throat.
~ow~
Shit.
Painful ear.
Crap. Crap. Crappity crap.
(That one was a comment not an action.)
I would like to know which non-handwashing bitch pig at my office put their infected hands all over the doorknob to the bathroom thus passing on their nasty germs to me. What rotten little ankle biter spewed their foul contagiousness into my refreshing clean virus-free air. Who poisoned me with their petulant putrid polluted pestilent plague.
When I find out I'm going to kick. Your ass. Or breathe on you. Or make you eat one of my used tissues. Just as soon as I get over this noxious scourge I'm undoubtedly coming down with. A pox on you, filthy illness passer. A POX!
~sneeze~
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Order in the court!
I have several addictions. No, Betty, say it ain't so. IT'S SO! Or maybe it's a routine. Yes, let's call it that. When I get home from work I do a few things every day. I strip off my clothes including my medieval torture device bra, undies and socks and put on a t-shirt & yoga pants to free my girls and be comfy. I check my e-mail, eat some cheese, then turn on the TV and tune into something mindlessly entertaining before a few sitcom-reruns and until prime-time starts at 8:00 where I will have to invest energy because dayum, Lost is hectic and American's Next Top Model is too fabulously insane to be a zombie through.
What I watch during this un-wind time usually changes from year to year. For awhile I was into Wheel of Fortune. Vanna White is an alien, no mistakes about it, but Pat Sajak is funny as hell and you can just tell he's fighting himself every night from working totally blue with his jokes. Someday I would love to hear that he's finally busted out an f-bomb on air. "No you fucking idiot, you can't buy an S, can't you see there's already 3 fucking S's on the fucking board?"
And this is pretty much why I gave up on this one because it pissed me off every time some idiot would buy a vowel and unnecessarily spend money when it was so obvious what the vowel would be.
"TIM- WILL T-LL"
Some idiot; "I'll buy an 'E', Pat."
What? WTF? You bought an "E"?!? You idiot! You deserve to lose $500 for that move. Stupid idiot. Then I'd get all yelly and red and a wee bit beyond reasonably upset, so, I had to give it up.
Then I watched Jeopardy for a bit and was always so proud of myself when I knew an answer and the eggheads didn't. I will boast and tell you that twice, twice, in my life I got the big money final jeopardy answer correct and none of the contestants did. Yea, that's right. I'm a jeeneous. Then whatshisface's snarky mid-show interviews got boring and there's only so many times I can watch nerds get excited over Quantum Theories of Russian existential Poets Starting with 'Z'. So I gave that up, too.
Sometime this year when I started getting home earlier than I used to I got hooked on People's Court with Judge Marilyn Milian. She is brilliant. A feisty Latina of Cuban decent (she talks about this a lot) who's always hissing some totally bizarre Spanish saying when it's warranted, as she leans over her desk and points her finger right at a defendants face making them wince with shame. Then she tells you in English what she just said in Spanish and it never packs the same punch through the translation. "The hammer of the striker is always weaker than the nail of the hammers hammer, is." But she's still great.
As much as I love Judge Marilyn with her red lipstick and sassy ways, my heart belongs to another robed firecracker that I've been devoted to for going on 2 years now.
Judge Judy. Sigh. Judge Freakin' Judy.
I luh her. She scares the living piss out of me but I luh her a lah. You do not want to fuck with Judge Judy. She will eat you up and spit you out then put you back together than chew you up again and force you to eat your own mangled remains. She will sport laser beams from her eyes and burn holes into your skull. She will verbally kick your ass so hard your mother will feel it. She will make you suffa. She will make you cry.
I don't know who she thinks she fooling with that little dainty doily collar she's got on her robe because she's about as similar to a sweet old granny sitting in a rocking chair as a spitting cobra is to a baby bunny. And I cannot fathom why anyone would sign up for and voluntarily take their case in front of her. She doesn't care if you have a Matterhorn's worth of rock-solid evidence against the person you're suing, if you've done something dumb she will widen her crazy eyes, draw her head back then snap it forward at you and scream "YOU. AH. STUPID!!"
And if you try, oh my god, to lie to her she will rip your head off, put her high heel through it, take a crap into the open cavity then instruct Byrd to give it back to you. And speaking of Byrd, he's awesome in his own right too. It cracks me up the way he acts so fucking uninterested and unimpressed with every single dipshit that comes into that courtroom. The way he slowly saunters over to a plaintiff with a grimace of total distaste on his face then never, ever makes eye-contact while lazily outstretching his hand, just out of reach so they have to lean over, to take their evidence. Fargin' slays me.
Case as case after case it's the same thing. Unprepared people (Ah doan hab it wit me, ya onna) hicks who've made 5 kids by the time they're 22 (his father is one of 4 guys for sure, judge), and women giving loser men all of their money (but I loved him). And peppered in-between are a bunch of interesting suits that are so weird or juicy you can't wait to see how she'll rule, what she'll say, and who will leave the courtroom a bloody mess. It's fantastic!
And anyone who picks a book title like this one is a QUEEN in my world.
What I watch during this un-wind time usually changes from year to year. For awhile I was into Wheel of Fortune. Vanna White is an alien, no mistakes about it, but Pat Sajak is funny as hell and you can just tell he's fighting himself every night from working totally blue with his jokes. Someday I would love to hear that he's finally busted out an f-bomb on air. "No you fucking idiot, you can't buy an S, can't you see there's already 3 fucking S's on the fucking board?"
And this is pretty much why I gave up on this one because it pissed me off every time some idiot would buy a vowel and unnecessarily spend money when it was so obvious what the vowel would be.
"TIM- WILL T-LL"
Some idiot; "I'll buy an 'E', Pat."
What? WTF? You bought an "E"?!? You idiot! You deserve to lose $500 for that move. Stupid idiot. Then I'd get all yelly and red and a wee bit beyond reasonably upset, so, I had to give it up.
Then I watched Jeopardy for a bit and was always so proud of myself when I knew an answer and the eggheads didn't. I will boast and tell you that twice, twice, in my life I got the big money final jeopardy answer correct and none of the contestants did. Yea, that's right. I'm a jeeneous. Then whatshisface's snarky mid-show interviews got boring and there's only so many times I can watch nerds get excited over Quantum Theories of Russian existential Poets Starting with 'Z'. So I gave that up, too.
Sometime this year when I started getting home earlier than I used to I got hooked on People's Court with Judge Marilyn Milian. She is brilliant. A feisty Latina of Cuban decent (she talks about this a lot) who's always hissing some totally bizarre Spanish saying when it's warranted, as she leans over her desk and points her finger right at a defendants face making them wince with shame. Then she tells you in English what she just said in Spanish and it never packs the same punch through the translation. "The hammer of the striker is always weaker than the nail of the hammers hammer, is." But she's still great.
As much as I love Judge Marilyn with her red lipstick and sassy ways, my heart belongs to another robed firecracker that I've been devoted to for going on 2 years now.
Judge Judy. Sigh. Judge Freakin' Judy.
I luh her. She scares the living piss out of me but I luh her a lah. You do not want to fuck with Judge Judy. She will eat you up and spit you out then put you back together than chew you up again and force you to eat your own mangled remains. She will sport laser beams from her eyes and burn holes into your skull. She will verbally kick your ass so hard your mother will feel it. She will make you suffa. She will make you cry.
I don't know who she thinks she fooling with that little dainty doily collar she's got on her robe because she's about as similar to a sweet old granny sitting in a rocking chair as a spitting cobra is to a baby bunny. And I cannot fathom why anyone would sign up for and voluntarily take their case in front of her. She doesn't care if you have a Matterhorn's worth of rock-solid evidence against the person you're suing, if you've done something dumb she will widen her crazy eyes, draw her head back then snap it forward at you and scream "YOU. AH. STUPID!!"
And if you try, oh my god, to lie to her she will rip your head off, put her high heel through it, take a crap into the open cavity then instruct Byrd to give it back to you. And speaking of Byrd, he's awesome in his own right too. It cracks me up the way he acts so fucking uninterested and unimpressed with every single dipshit that comes into that courtroom. The way he slowly saunters over to a plaintiff with a grimace of total distaste on his face then never, ever makes eye-contact while lazily outstretching his hand, just out of reach so they have to lean over, to take their evidence. Fargin' slays me.
Case as case after case it's the same thing. Unprepared people (Ah doan hab it wit me, ya onna) hicks who've made 5 kids by the time they're 22 (his father is one of 4 guys for sure, judge), and women giving loser men all of their money (but I loved him). And peppered in-between are a bunch of interesting suits that are so weird or juicy you can't wait to see how she'll rule, what she'll say, and who will leave the courtroom a bloody mess. It's fantastic!
And anyone who picks a book title like this one is a QUEEN in my world.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Pity the fool
Oy vey, eesh and ugh. There have been moments my life that are so embarrassing they make me wince and recoil and flinch causing me to draw my shoulders up in a posture of self-protection and my butthole slams shut. Then I make a face that looks like someone has just put a steamy turd under my nose and the essence of chagrin comes out of my pores and I shudder in the memory of some never to be forgotten regretful loser ass dumb lame didn't stop long enough to think about it before I did it thing.
I normally think of myself as relatively cool, but we have all had times like these in our past, right? RIGHT?!? SAY RIGHT!! Some verbal dysentery or written vomitosis that sprung forth from our being that didn't waft down from the heavens light as a feather landing delicately on the groud, but rather sprang across the sky like a trebuchet loaded with a shit bucket that splatters over the earth and everyone downwind gets hit.
Tripping up and falling into a puddle of poop when no one is looking is bad enough, but taking a flying leap into a pool of stupid in front of other people sucks. Of which we all recover from, I'm sure, and maybe I'm unique here, but I've done a few things in my life that never fail to make me positively cringe when I think about them. Which I theb have to put effort into stuffing them back into the far away recesses of my warped brain and soothe myself with chocolate. (Of course I "soothe" myself with chocolate if I chip a nail, so , there you go.)
In thinking about what to write today this was the actual topic I came up with since I love to tell a story because hell, why keep all of these humiliations inside my own brain? Why not POST THEM ON THE INTERNET. Then I remembered ~gulp~ a certain poem I wrote a few years ago that I had the ~bleh~ super idea to POST ON THE INTERNET so why not do that again? And the really weird thing? I wrote and posted it exactly 4 years ago to the day. I find that very spooky. And um, it does not make me a dork in anyway. OK?
Anyway, those who read it were cool and gave me props which is saying a lot for them because behold, it is spectacularly bad.
The Thief
I'm a thief, a swindler, a crook and a faker
A dastardly peaceful moment taker
I didn't ask permission to do what I did
I just went and I took it like a spoiled kid
A moment of calm for my stormy soul
To soothe my heart that has been so cold
I forced the sun to touch my face
And lift my spirits without any haste
I sat on a bench that wasn't mine
For it was about gosh darn dang time
To steal this second this minute this hour
And turn around this feeling of sour
I didn't care if the ocean was free
I stole a look anyway,
go ahead, sue me
I sneaked a peak at a lovers embrace
I didn't leave a mark not even a trace
I thought of my friends, the old and the new
And knew it was time to climb out of this stew
And thought to myself, it's gonna be alright
When no one's around
I'll hold myself good and tight
I took a deep breath and let my lips climb
Into a smile I ripped off from the sublime
I know there will be more times to get through
But I robbed something today from my ocean of blue
A feeling of peace that I sometimes lack
So, yea, I took it, and I'm not givin it back!
My god, how did I live with myself? I wrote that after a rough year of being dumped, then hooking up with another guy who was a jerk, thinking I was in love with him but it was all projected left-over feelings for the boyfriend who had broken up with me the year before. And I'd been struggling at a new job the entire year and was pretty darn lost. But jeezus, what possessed me?
I clearly remember feeling so proud and kick-ass and having a moment of positive thinking, which is always good, but damn, girl. Keep that lame shit to yourself. Not everything belongs on the net! That's why there are spiral notebooks because some shit deserves to be nowhere but under your fucking bed. Eesh.
Another smooth move I made can be blamed on youth, but it was humiliating nonetheless. I was in 8th grade and involved in the school play Oklahoma. I tried out for, but didn't get, a part that year which was already a huge embarrassment because I'd made a pretty good reputation for being a little ham a couple years before when I stole the show in Meet Me in St. Louis. But alas, I was stuck behind the scenes doing something crappy like make-up for a bunch of hormone-charged zitty pre-pubescents.
We got through the 2 weekend run of the show and it was finally closing night. The entire cast and crew with parents, etc. were going to have a get-together with the obligatory cookies and punch after the audience had left. I got the brilliant idea to recruit one of my friends to help pull off a big "surprise" for everyone which she readily agreed to because she was a full-time nerd whereas, apparently, I am a situational one.
The whole auditorium was full of kids and adults but things hadn't started rolling yet so the place was surprisingly quiet. My friend and I snuck onto the stage, creeped to downstage dead center, grabbed hands and screamed at the top of our girly high-pitched screeching lungs "LET'S PAAAAAARRRRRRTTTTYYYYYY!!!" Then we jumped off the stage onto the ground where I lost my footing, as did she, on the slippery linoleum floor and we crashed into a heap ripping skirts and gaining fat lips.
As you might have guessed...there was dead silence. Dead. Silence.
Dead.
Silence.
Not a peep in the house. No applause. No hoops. No hollers. No one coming over to see if we were OK. No laughing at the goofy girls. No joining in on some John Hughes movie moment before there was a John Hughes movie but you get what I'm saying. We had 50 pairs of eyes with 50 matching blank faces staring at us.
And after-the-fact I would have rathered someone say, "what the fuck are you 2 retards doing?" But you know what was ever worse? Every single person went back to whomever they were chatting with and completely ignored us like it didn't even happen. It was SO LAME it didn't even register on the something-to-pay-attention-to scale.
I don't even remember what happened after that except I needed to attend to my mouth that had been smashed by a bony elbow and I probably tried to redeem myself by playing it off like I was indeed cool but I was so not. So not. It's a miracle that stunt didn't make it around school, but like I said, it was SO LAME it didn't even matter. Small blessings. Ugh.
There is another totally and completely solidly wholly mortifying thing I did when I was a freshman, a scant year after that last debacle, that involved me and a sloppy patch of very slippery mud and a pair of unfortunate white pants, with me being a stupid smart ass chasing some birds to be "funny" during the all-school lunch break in the middle of the quad in front of, oh, about ONE THOUSAND KIDS. But my butthole is puckered enough for one day. Eesh.
Now, where can I find some chocolate?
I normally think of myself as relatively cool, but we have all had times like these in our past, right? RIGHT?!? SAY RIGHT!! Some verbal dysentery or written vomitosis that sprung forth from our being that didn't waft down from the heavens light as a feather landing delicately on the groud, but rather sprang across the sky like a trebuchet loaded with a shit bucket that splatters over the earth and everyone downwind gets hit.
Tripping up and falling into a puddle of poop when no one is looking is bad enough, but taking a flying leap into a pool of stupid in front of other people sucks. Of which we all recover from, I'm sure, and maybe I'm unique here, but I've done a few things in my life that never fail to make me positively cringe when I think about them. Which I theb have to put effort into stuffing them back into the far away recesses of my warped brain and soothe myself with chocolate. (Of course I "soothe" myself with chocolate if I chip a nail, so , there you go.)
In thinking about what to write today this was the actual topic I came up with since I love to tell a story because hell, why keep all of these humiliations inside my own brain? Why not POST THEM ON THE INTERNET. Then I remembered ~gulp~ a certain poem I wrote a few years ago that I had the ~bleh~ super idea to POST ON THE INTERNET so why not do that again? And the really weird thing? I wrote and posted it exactly 4 years ago to the day. I find that very spooky. And um, it does not make me a dork in anyway. OK?
Anyway, those who read it were cool and gave me props which is saying a lot for them because behold, it is spectacularly bad.
The Thief
I'm a thief, a swindler, a crook and a faker
A dastardly peaceful moment taker
I didn't ask permission to do what I did
I just went and I took it like a spoiled kid
A moment of calm for my stormy soul
To soothe my heart that has been so cold
I forced the sun to touch my face
And lift my spirits without any haste
I sat on a bench that wasn't mine
For it was about gosh darn dang time
To steal this second this minute this hour
And turn around this feeling of sour
I didn't care if the ocean was free
I stole a look anyway,
go ahead, sue me
I sneaked a peak at a lovers embrace
I didn't leave a mark not even a trace
I thought of my friends, the old and the new
And knew it was time to climb out of this stew
And thought to myself, it's gonna be alright
When no one's around
I'll hold myself good and tight
I took a deep breath and let my lips climb
Into a smile I ripped off from the sublime
I know there will be more times to get through
But I robbed something today from my ocean of blue
A feeling of peace that I sometimes lack
So, yea, I took it, and I'm not givin it back!
My god, how did I live with myself? I wrote that after a rough year of being dumped, then hooking up with another guy who was a jerk, thinking I was in love with him but it was all projected left-over feelings for the boyfriend who had broken up with me the year before. And I'd been struggling at a new job the entire year and was pretty darn lost. But jeezus, what possessed me?
I clearly remember feeling so proud and kick-ass and having a moment of positive thinking, which is always good, but damn, girl. Keep that lame shit to yourself. Not everything belongs on the net! That's why there are spiral notebooks because some shit deserves to be nowhere but under your fucking bed. Eesh.
Another smooth move I made can be blamed on youth, but it was humiliating nonetheless. I was in 8th grade and involved in the school play Oklahoma. I tried out for, but didn't get, a part that year which was already a huge embarrassment because I'd made a pretty good reputation for being a little ham a couple years before when I stole the show in Meet Me in St. Louis. But alas, I was stuck behind the scenes doing something crappy like make-up for a bunch of hormone-charged zitty pre-pubescents.
We got through the 2 weekend run of the show and it was finally closing night. The entire cast and crew with parents, etc. were going to have a get-together with the obligatory cookies and punch after the audience had left. I got the brilliant idea to recruit one of my friends to help pull off a big "surprise" for everyone which she readily agreed to because she was a full-time nerd whereas, apparently, I am a situational one.
The whole auditorium was full of kids and adults but things hadn't started rolling yet so the place was surprisingly quiet. My friend and I snuck onto the stage, creeped to downstage dead center, grabbed hands and screamed at the top of our girly high-pitched screeching lungs "LET'S PAAAAAARRRRRRTTTTYYYYYY!!!" Then we jumped off the stage onto the ground where I lost my footing, as did she, on the slippery linoleum floor and we crashed into a heap ripping skirts and gaining fat lips.
As you might have guessed...there was dead silence. Dead. Silence.
Dead.
Silence.
Not a peep in the house. No applause. No hoops. No hollers. No one coming over to see if we were OK. No laughing at the goofy girls. No joining in on some John Hughes movie moment before there was a John Hughes movie but you get what I'm saying. We had 50 pairs of eyes with 50 matching blank faces staring at us.
And after-the-fact I would have rathered someone say, "what the fuck are you 2 retards doing?" But you know what was ever worse? Every single person went back to whomever they were chatting with and completely ignored us like it didn't even happen. It was SO LAME it didn't even register on the something-to-pay-attention-to scale.
I don't even remember what happened after that except I needed to attend to my mouth that had been smashed by a bony elbow and I probably tried to redeem myself by playing it off like I was indeed cool but I was so not. So not. It's a miracle that stunt didn't make it around school, but like I said, it was SO LAME it didn't even matter. Small blessings. Ugh.
There is another totally and completely solidly wholly mortifying thing I did when I was a freshman, a scant year after that last debacle, that involved me and a sloppy patch of very slippery mud and a pair of unfortunate white pants, with me being a stupid smart ass chasing some birds to be "funny" during the all-school lunch break in the middle of the quad in front of, oh, about ONE THOUSAND KIDS. But my butthole is puckered enough for one day. Eesh.
Now, where can I find some chocolate?
Monday, November 06, 2006
Rub some dirt on it!
How did we survive it? How did our parents dress us in toughskin pants with matching jackets and send their precious children off into the world expecting us to return home in one piece? How did most of us not end up six feet under or at best hairless and scarred drooling through chipped teeth and blinking yes or no answers to our personal attendants with our one weeping cloudy eye?
Childhood is not for sissies, people. At least not the kind of childhood I had. And when I stop to think about it I'm stunned that me and my crew didn't end up being the subject matter for an after-school special on the dangers of playing with your fathers power tools in the pool. If Stone Phillips was around in the 70's when the hooligans on my street were in full-force we'd have been a weekly segment warning parents about things like the evils of empty boxes that do not make decent boats in rain storms to sail down slick iceplant-covered slopes with prickle bushes at the bottom.
I can't believe that only a few of us took trips to the emergency room to get patched up after doing something brilliant like trying to race down a giant kid-eating hill. It's a wonder there weren't more summers spent keeping a cast dry by wrapping it in plastic sheeting sealed with electrical tape.
I am pathologically accident-prone. Seriously, I should be studied. But I'm not talking about the clumsy mishaps and daily discomforts I suffer because the universe laughs at my pain. I'm talking about the death-defying risks kids take because their brains are made of cheese and the stupidest most unbelievable things seem like the greatest idea you've ever had when you're 11 and your parents are out somewhere and left you alone with your best friend who saw this cool thing on TV and he's sure if you get a sheet big enough it'll act like a parachute when you jump off the fucking roof.
By the way, 200 thread count flowered bed linens tied to a pair of your father's suspenders do not poof out with a billowy pop and sustain the air thereby gently floating a chubby child onto the ground. They in fact do nothing but land on top of you then you get in trouble for fucking up your mom's good sheets after you get home from the emergency room getting your broken arm reset and wrapped in plaster. (No, I was never stupid enough to jump off the roof with a sheet tied to my ass, give me some credit. That was my friend.)
I have a feeling things are different nowadays. I never see any kids in my neighborhood playing outside or by themselves very often and riding your bike to the store to get candy on a Saturday afternoon? Forget it. Mom will drive you. And I understand that. There are too many crazies and too many people and like I said in my previous post, I'd be such a nervous nelly if I had kids they'd be tethered to the couch swathed in bubblewrap and wouldn't be allowed to make a move without checking with me first.
But when we were kids it was a free-for-all of danger. We did handstands on skateboards and put together go-carts made from rusty nails and old shingles then sailed them down our driveways and across the street without even checking to see if cars were coming. We had rubberband fights and kick wars and let's tease the dobermans then run up onto the swingset before they eat our faces races. (Alright, that one was me.)
We played red-rover red-rover, which I still bear a scar from, and smear the queer and some twisted game called statue maker where one kid would grab you by the arm and swing you around as fast and hard as they could, sending you sailing across the lawn where you'd tumble and sputter eating a mouthful of sod until you finally stopped catapulting across the yard and you'd have to freeze in whatever broken heap you'd landed in becoming a hilarious "statue" with a broken collar bone.
We tried to jump ravines with our Huffy's and dared each other to eat stuff out of our mother's medicine cabinets. (Don't get hyper, it was only laxative gum.) We set up a zip-line tied between 2 trees running across the creek and was a good 6 feet off the ground which held all summer long. Until I took a ride where I swiftly went crashing to the ground knocking myself completely unconscious while all the retarded kids I was with just stared at me. (They were so fucking useless!)
We had lawn darts and cars without seatbelts and spent all summer in the pool trying to see how high we could bounce off the diving board. We rode in the back of pick-up trucks, (My brother actually made me lay in the bed of his truck, covered me with a tarp and tied me in on a 1000 mile trip from Colorado to California when I was 15. Can you imagine?), and spent every moment we could traipsing through our rattlesnake-inhabited hills climbing enormous rocks and constructing forts in the bushes to hide stolen Playboys from our parents and smoke hallow twigs like cigarettes. (That was, unfortunately, also me.)
We got hurt all the time and were persuaded by our friends not to tell anyone since it was their idea to play fight with pool cues and bare hands which resulted in a hearty thwap on tender knuckles. We would brain each other with pillows and snap wet towels right at your eye. We folded each other in half to see who could kiss their own butt, sometimes without permission from the butt kisser.
It seemed like our folks never knew where we were. We might have said we were going across the street to so-and-so's house but who knows where we ended up. Our mothers called no one and we were hardly supervised. Until someone started screaming or crying or there was an explosion. Then we'd hear footsteps thundering down a hallway where the door would crash open with a parent poking their head in the room and shouting "what are you damn kids up to?!?"
I carry the marks and memories of my youth, and my back never was the same after that zip-line debacle, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Well, maybe I'd skip the time I thought it would be fun to lean 8 inches over a strip of roll caps and smash them with a hammer. I don't think my eyesight has ever been the same.
Childhood is not for sissies, people. At least not the kind of childhood I had. And when I stop to think about it I'm stunned that me and my crew didn't end up being the subject matter for an after-school special on the dangers of playing with your fathers power tools in the pool. If Stone Phillips was around in the 70's when the hooligans on my street were in full-force we'd have been a weekly segment warning parents about things like the evils of empty boxes that do not make decent boats in rain storms to sail down slick iceplant-covered slopes with prickle bushes at the bottom.
I can't believe that only a few of us took trips to the emergency room to get patched up after doing something brilliant like trying to race down a giant kid-eating hill. It's a wonder there weren't more summers spent keeping a cast dry by wrapping it in plastic sheeting sealed with electrical tape.
I am pathologically accident-prone. Seriously, I should be studied. But I'm not talking about the clumsy mishaps and daily discomforts I suffer because the universe laughs at my pain. I'm talking about the death-defying risks kids take because their brains are made of cheese and the stupidest most unbelievable things seem like the greatest idea you've ever had when you're 11 and your parents are out somewhere and left you alone with your best friend who saw this cool thing on TV and he's sure if you get a sheet big enough it'll act like a parachute when you jump off the fucking roof.
By the way, 200 thread count flowered bed linens tied to a pair of your father's suspenders do not poof out with a billowy pop and sustain the air thereby gently floating a chubby child onto the ground. They in fact do nothing but land on top of you then you get in trouble for fucking up your mom's good sheets after you get home from the emergency room getting your broken arm reset and wrapped in plaster. (No, I was never stupid enough to jump off the roof with a sheet tied to my ass, give me some credit. That was my friend.)
I have a feeling things are different nowadays. I never see any kids in my neighborhood playing outside or by themselves very often and riding your bike to the store to get candy on a Saturday afternoon? Forget it. Mom will drive you. And I understand that. There are too many crazies and too many people and like I said in my previous post, I'd be such a nervous nelly if I had kids they'd be tethered to the couch swathed in bubblewrap and wouldn't be allowed to make a move without checking with me first.
But when we were kids it was a free-for-all of danger. We did handstands on skateboards and put together go-carts made from rusty nails and old shingles then sailed them down our driveways and across the street without even checking to see if cars were coming. We had rubberband fights and kick wars and let's tease the dobermans then run up onto the swingset before they eat our faces races. (Alright, that one was me.)
We played red-rover red-rover, which I still bear a scar from, and smear the queer and some twisted game called statue maker where one kid would grab you by the arm and swing you around as fast and hard as they could, sending you sailing across the lawn where you'd tumble and sputter eating a mouthful of sod until you finally stopped catapulting across the yard and you'd have to freeze in whatever broken heap you'd landed in becoming a hilarious "statue" with a broken collar bone.
We tried to jump ravines with our Huffy's and dared each other to eat stuff out of our mother's medicine cabinets. (Don't get hyper, it was only laxative gum.) We set up a zip-line tied between 2 trees running across the creek and was a good 6 feet off the ground which held all summer long. Until I took a ride where I swiftly went crashing to the ground knocking myself completely unconscious while all the retarded kids I was with just stared at me. (They were so fucking useless!)
We had lawn darts and cars without seatbelts and spent all summer in the pool trying to see how high we could bounce off the diving board. We rode in the back of pick-up trucks, (My brother actually made me lay in the bed of his truck, covered me with a tarp and tied me in on a 1000 mile trip from Colorado to California when I was 15. Can you imagine?), and spent every moment we could traipsing through our rattlesnake-inhabited hills climbing enormous rocks and constructing forts in the bushes to hide stolen Playboys from our parents and smoke hallow twigs like cigarettes. (That was, unfortunately, also me.)
We got hurt all the time and were persuaded by our friends not to tell anyone since it was their idea to play fight with pool cues and bare hands which resulted in a hearty thwap on tender knuckles. We would brain each other with pillows and snap wet towels right at your eye. We folded each other in half to see who could kiss their own butt, sometimes without permission from the butt kisser.
It seemed like our folks never knew where we were. We might have said we were going across the street to so-and-so's house but who knows where we ended up. Our mothers called no one and we were hardly supervised. Until someone started screaming or crying or there was an explosion. Then we'd hear footsteps thundering down a hallway where the door would crash open with a parent poking their head in the room and shouting "what are you damn kids up to?!?"
I carry the marks and memories of my youth, and my back never was the same after that zip-line debacle, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Well, maybe I'd skip the time I thought it would be fun to lean 8 inches over a strip of roll caps and smash them with a hammer. I don't think my eyesight has ever been the same.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Good Sunday
Well, I just had a great weekend. Not perfect since I sort of hurt my back lifting a case of beer, although hell, beer! But it was great nonetheless. Today we traveled a ridiculously short distance so I have no excuse not to go there more often to the Wild Animal Park to see some critters and the hopes of seeing a new female elephant that was born on September 11th, of all fucking dates. Although anything good happening on that day is a welcome respite from the sadness so many of us still feel. Sigh.
Anywho, I was very excited to see this new little girl, since I've never seen a brand new baby elephant, and to trek around seeing some of the animals I love so much. And yes, dammit, get some fucking exercise OK? OK. We'd also heard there were 2 different litters of lion cubs that were just released for public view last week and we were hoping to get lucky enough to catch a peak at a few of them as well.
We decided to leave really early to avoid the famous San Diego tourist crowds that for so many months of the year royally fuck up any popular attraction we want to visit because my idea of a good time is not being smooshed ass to taint with Norman from Nebraska and his brood trying to shuffle through the shark encounter at Sea World while overhearing some dummy explain to her kid that "Shamu breathes air and fishes "breathe" water so sharks are "more like a" fish." That is not made up, by the way.
We arrived a scant few minutes after the main gates opened, got kick-ass parking and whipped right through the turnstyles. It was too early for any of the shops or eateries to be open so my fingers were crossed that we'd have the place somewhat to ourselves. We soon overheard an employee-type person say there were only 123 people in the park so far. Booya! That's what I'm talkin' about. Even though this place is huge there are too many times when you're clamoring with 200 sweaty people to look at anything.
I was bummed to see a sign stating the giraffe feeding was closed because, fucking A, feeding a giraffe is awesome. Do you have any idea how BIG they are? Seriously. I know you know that giraffes are big but do you know HOW BIG? Because they are BIG! Like, their head alone is as big as the trunk of my car. In fact, I don't think I could even get a giraffe head in the trunk of my car. I'd have to tie it down with a bunch of bungee cords and then everyone would see the giraffe head sticking out of my trunk and I'd probably get a ticket or something.
We decided to go find the elephants first but didn't see anything in the encloser thingy except people with giant shovels cleaning up giant poop so we headed down the hill to the Lion Camp. From a distance we could see a crowd (grr) and it was obvious something was out of the den so we scaddadled over there.
We were ecstatic to see that it was a mama lion and her set of triplets. Triplets! They were so cute I wanted to stuff one in my backpack, take it home and squeeze it then dip it in my coffee. There were 2 males and 1 female and of course the female was the brave one venturing away on her own while the little boys chirped and huffed when mama went out of eyeshot. Heh. And the mother was incredibly beautiful. She came right up next to the glass and was literally 2 feet from me at one point. I can't describe it any better than amazing.
And this is where I must explain something. I have a problem, a whopping big problem with a lot of animals that are captured and put into certain types of containment. Circus' (there I go again with the plural/apostrophe confusion again. Circus's? Curcussesses? Circi?) Totally deplorable, they should be outlawed. Private ownership? So not a good idea. Small unregulated bogus "zoo's" in someone's backyard or exploitive things like dolphins in a tiny tank in an off-strip Las Vegas bar? There's a special place in hell for people who own those.
But there are facilities and organizations that are doing wonderful things for conservation and endangered species and I'm privileged to live in a town that has a world-famous zoo with a reputation for being legit and for helping keep some animals off the extinct list who would otherwise be nothing more than a sketch in a history book or a muppet in a museum. It's a philosophical debate for sure, but anytime there is the right kind of progress done in the right way it should be supported and I'll do what I can when I can however I can.
That being said, we decided to tear ourselves away from the kitties and go find that baby elephant, which unfortunately required us to walk 10 miles straight uphill that threatened to pop my kneecaps off with a grizzly twang and made the temperate weather feel like Satan's asshole. But it was all worth it. We found that the herd with the baby was still in a gated area close to viewing and once again we got a good look of the tiny little girl.
She was so wee that I became a nervous wreck right away fretting that every time she flopped onto the ground underneath her big mama she'd get stepped on or worse. (I'd make such a horrible parent, encasing my child in a giant hamster ball to keep him or her safe.) And wouldn't you know it? She did get a little bit stepped on and let out a squeal that made the 3 adult elephants surrounding her jump like they'd been goosed in the butt and one old matriarch rushed over and scolded the mama elephant like a disapproving mother-in-law wagging an admonishing finger.
The baby was fine and she went on her merry way staggering around like a drunken toddler and testing her wiggly trunk trying to pick up a rock. It was so sweet I wished that in the Zoo's conservation efforts and research that they would please figure out how to make a special breed of mini elephant that would get no bigger than a large dog so that I may have one, thank you.
After we'd melted in the sun we had a very crappy lunch (these places are not known for their food) and went to the lorakeet bird house to feed them some nectar and lose some percentage points of hearing because those little fuckers are LOUD. We moseyed around a bit more, fed some ducks, pet some African deer (no plain-old goats in that petting zoo) then decided to head home. I didn't want to kill one single person the whole time so all-in-all it was a very nice day. If you're ever in San Diego I highly recommend it.
But make sure you...
...the sock puppets.
Anywho, I was very excited to see this new little girl, since I've never seen a brand new baby elephant, and to trek around seeing some of the animals I love so much. And yes, dammit, get some fucking exercise OK? OK. We'd also heard there were 2 different litters of lion cubs that were just released for public view last week and we were hoping to get lucky enough to catch a peak at a few of them as well.
We decided to leave really early to avoid the famous San Diego tourist crowds that for so many months of the year royally fuck up any popular attraction we want to visit because my idea of a good time is not being smooshed ass to taint with Norman from Nebraska and his brood trying to shuffle through the shark encounter at Sea World while overhearing some dummy explain to her kid that "Shamu breathes air and fishes "breathe" water so sharks are "more like a" fish." That is not made up, by the way.
We arrived a scant few minutes after the main gates opened, got kick-ass parking and whipped right through the turnstyles. It was too early for any of the shops or eateries to be open so my fingers were crossed that we'd have the place somewhat to ourselves. We soon overheard an employee-type person say there were only 123 people in the park so far. Booya! That's what I'm talkin' about. Even though this place is huge there are too many times when you're clamoring with 200 sweaty people to look at anything.
I was bummed to see a sign stating the giraffe feeding was closed because, fucking A, feeding a giraffe is awesome. Do you have any idea how BIG they are? Seriously. I know you know that giraffes are big but do you know HOW BIG? Because they are BIG! Like, their head alone is as big as the trunk of my car. In fact, I don't think I could even get a giraffe head in the trunk of my car. I'd have to tie it down with a bunch of bungee cords and then everyone would see the giraffe head sticking out of my trunk and I'd probably get a ticket or something.
We decided to go find the elephants first but didn't see anything in the encloser thingy except people with giant shovels cleaning up giant poop so we headed down the hill to the Lion Camp. From a distance we could see a crowd (grr) and it was obvious something was out of the den so we scaddadled over there.
We were ecstatic to see that it was a mama lion and her set of triplets. Triplets! They were so cute I wanted to stuff one in my backpack, take it home and squeeze it then dip it in my coffee. There were 2 males and 1 female and of course the female was the brave one venturing away on her own while the little boys chirped and huffed when mama went out of eyeshot. Heh. And the mother was incredibly beautiful. She came right up next to the glass and was literally 2 feet from me at one point. I can't describe it any better than amazing.
And this is where I must explain something. I have a problem, a whopping big problem with a lot of animals that are captured and put into certain types of containment. Circus' (there I go again with the plural/apostrophe confusion again. Circus's? Curcussesses? Circi?) Totally deplorable, they should be outlawed. Private ownership? So not a good idea. Small unregulated bogus "zoo's" in someone's backyard or exploitive things like dolphins in a tiny tank in an off-strip Las Vegas bar? There's a special place in hell for people who own those.
But there are facilities and organizations that are doing wonderful things for conservation and endangered species and I'm privileged to live in a town that has a world-famous zoo with a reputation for being legit and for helping keep some animals off the extinct list who would otherwise be nothing more than a sketch in a history book or a muppet in a museum. It's a philosophical debate for sure, but anytime there is the right kind of progress done in the right way it should be supported and I'll do what I can when I can however I can.
That being said, we decided to tear ourselves away from the kitties and go find that baby elephant, which unfortunately required us to walk 10 miles straight uphill that threatened to pop my kneecaps off with a grizzly twang and made the temperate weather feel like Satan's asshole. But it was all worth it. We found that the herd with the baby was still in a gated area close to viewing and once again we got a good look of the tiny little girl.
She was so wee that I became a nervous wreck right away fretting that every time she flopped onto the ground underneath her big mama she'd get stepped on or worse. (I'd make such a horrible parent, encasing my child in a giant hamster ball to keep him or her safe.) And wouldn't you know it? She did get a little bit stepped on and let out a squeal that made the 3 adult elephants surrounding her jump like they'd been goosed in the butt and one old matriarch rushed over and scolded the mama elephant like a disapproving mother-in-law wagging an admonishing finger.
The baby was fine and she went on her merry way staggering around like a drunken toddler and testing her wiggly trunk trying to pick up a rock. It was so sweet I wished that in the Zoo's conservation efforts and research that they would please figure out how to make a special breed of mini elephant that would get no bigger than a large dog so that I may have one, thank you.
After we'd melted in the sun we had a very crappy lunch (these places are not known for their food) and went to the lorakeet bird house to feed them some nectar and lose some percentage points of hearing because those little fuckers are LOUD. We moseyed around a bit more, fed some ducks, pet some African deer (no plain-old goats in that petting zoo) then decided to head home. I didn't want to kill one single person the whole time so all-in-all it was a very nice day. If you're ever in San Diego I highly recommend it.
But make sure you...
...the sock puppets.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Um, ew
Listed under the short number of ingredients on a package of Tilamook Special Reserve Extra Sharp Chedder cheese;
No animal remnants.
Frankly, I'm disappointed. When I'm paying $7.99 a pound for dairy I'd expect a little extra something. Say, a random mouse ear or a thinly sliced cow eye.
Come on, Tilamook, it's the least you can do.
No animal remnants.
Frankly, I'm disappointed. When I'm paying $7.99 a pound for dairy I'd expect a little extra something. Say, a random mouse ear or a thinly sliced cow eye.
Come on, Tilamook, it's the least you can do.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Save the drama for...me
Remember that creepy sister in Muriel's Wedding that would get a lecherous look in her eye, drop her head, screw up her mouth then slur, "You're terrible, Muriel" every time Muriel would get a case of verbal diarrhea and say something awesomely horrible?
This is what echoes through my mind when I'm being naughty. More often when I'm having naughty thoughts and then it echoes loudly in my head when I'm putting some of those naughty thoughts into action. I grow little horns and I get a flamey glint in my eyes and I'm sort of sure that a pointy tail pops up in my pants.
I don't just have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. I have a gremlin on the back of my neck and a fairy hiding between my toes and a big ol' bug up my butt. And that bug is a cheeky little scamp who can smell a Greek tragedy from a mile away and clamors for a front row seat.
In general I don't like big messy freak-outs and of course it sucks when I'm on the receiving end of a dickish dog-pile, but I have to admit that there have been times that I deserved a swift kick in the booty. And I'll freely confess that when someone else has more than earned a massive bitch slapping that I'll stand on the sidelines waving my flaming pom-poms happily jumping into the fray if I think it's my place to do so. Sometimes a person needs their ass kicked and I have several pairs of steel-toed boots just ready for a well-placed punt.
Most of us who weren't raised in an ultimate fighting cage were told to ignore the jerks. And in most instances this is good advice. When I get particularly spun-up about some fucker giving me shit or farting in the atmosphere for all to enjoy, I'm inevitably told to just forget about it, don't let 'em get to you, never let them see you sweat. But there are times when that dickhead has Crossed. The. Line. And then it's time for some whoop ass.
I explain it like this; if you and your posse had a standing get-together every weekend and one night a friend of a friend showed up, ran around like a maniac, insulted your dog and slapped your face, broke your favorite party platter then promptly took a shit in the punchbowl what would you do? Just smile and say, oh, nevermind, just push the turd to the side with the ladle, pretend it's not there. No, I don't think you would. And when that rude visitor makes their way into your shared space and does the same thing every time that crap gets beyond old and they deserve that befouled bowl poured over their head.
There are people who say manipulative shit that is polished to such a shiny luster most people who don't posses a keen sense of observation or who want to be snowed eat it up like candy. See: politicians. You know there's always that passive-aggressive goon in your office who just gets away with murder. And I'm starting to think the attention-whoring trolls on the internet outnumber the sane people 3 to 1. So it's a good day in my book when someone who gets away with bullshit on a continual basis has that big ball of crap shoved right back in their cake hole.
I think we've all encountered people like this, at least I know I do on a god damn daily basis, be it on the net or in real life. So isn't it great when a jerk or hypocrite gets a heaping helping of some rough justice. A good strong case of their own rancid medicine. A glorious smackdown that was a long-time coming. I certainly think so.
Although I'm not completely heartless, I do have mixed feelings about it and will always try to give any person an ounce of thought and understanding (unless you're a complete waste of space), but when bridges are burned and double-crossers leap over lines, that bug in my ass has a good time watching them get their comeuppance. And really, anything living up my butt should get a laugh once-in-awhile.
Sometimes I'm terrible, Muriel.
This is what echoes through my mind when I'm being naughty. More often when I'm having naughty thoughts and then it echoes loudly in my head when I'm putting some of those naughty thoughts into action. I grow little horns and I get a flamey glint in my eyes and I'm sort of sure that a pointy tail pops up in my pants.
I don't just have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. I have a gremlin on the back of my neck and a fairy hiding between my toes and a big ol' bug up my butt. And that bug is a cheeky little scamp who can smell a Greek tragedy from a mile away and clamors for a front row seat.
In general I don't like big messy freak-outs and of course it sucks when I'm on the receiving end of a dickish dog-pile, but I have to admit that there have been times that I deserved a swift kick in the booty. And I'll freely confess that when someone else has more than earned a massive bitch slapping that I'll stand on the sidelines waving my flaming pom-poms happily jumping into the fray if I think it's my place to do so. Sometimes a person needs their ass kicked and I have several pairs of steel-toed boots just ready for a well-placed punt.
Most of us who weren't raised in an ultimate fighting cage were told to ignore the jerks. And in most instances this is good advice. When I get particularly spun-up about some fucker giving me shit or farting in the atmosphere for all to enjoy, I'm inevitably told to just forget about it, don't let 'em get to you, never let them see you sweat. But there are times when that dickhead has Crossed. The. Line. And then it's time for some whoop ass.
I explain it like this; if you and your posse had a standing get-together every weekend and one night a friend of a friend showed up, ran around like a maniac, insulted your dog and slapped your face, broke your favorite party platter then promptly took a shit in the punchbowl what would you do? Just smile and say, oh, nevermind, just push the turd to the side with the ladle, pretend it's not there. No, I don't think you would. And when that rude visitor makes their way into your shared space and does the same thing every time that crap gets beyond old and they deserve that befouled bowl poured over their head.
There are people who say manipulative shit that is polished to such a shiny luster most people who don't posses a keen sense of observation or who want to be snowed eat it up like candy. See: politicians. You know there's always that passive-aggressive goon in your office who just gets away with murder. And I'm starting to think the attention-whoring trolls on the internet outnumber the sane people 3 to 1. So it's a good day in my book when someone who gets away with bullshit on a continual basis has that big ball of crap shoved right back in their cake hole.
I think we've all encountered people like this, at least I know I do on a god damn daily basis, be it on the net or in real life. So isn't it great when a jerk or hypocrite gets a heaping helping of some rough justice. A good strong case of their own rancid medicine. A glorious smackdown that was a long-time coming. I certainly think so.
Although I'm not completely heartless, I do have mixed feelings about it and will always try to give any person an ounce of thought and understanding (unless you're a complete waste of space), but when bridges are burned and double-crossers leap over lines, that bug in my ass has a good time watching them get their comeuppance. And really, anything living up my butt should get a laugh once-in-awhile.
Sometimes I'm terrible, Muriel.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
From me to you
In addition to my man and my kitty, here are some other things I'm lovin' right I thought I'd share. Because I'm totally not selfish. Nope. Not me. I'm a giver. Shut up.
I dig the shopping blogs I already know about and have entertained the thought of doing one myself, but that would take, like, effort and stuff and hrm, it would be, like, hard. In the meantime, check these out.
1. Ben & Jerry's Brownie Batter Ice Cream
Let's start with some medicine, shall we? When you're mood is dislocated and your brain is warped and you need to apply direct pressure on your soul, take 2 of these and call me in the morning. Well, maybe not 2 because they do pack a wallop in the calorie department but they're less fattening than Haagen daz and they have cuter packaging.
This. Shit. Rocks. If you're a batter eater like me you'll appreciate the luscious vein of ooey gooey brownie fornicating the middle of the rich, chocolate ice cream. The batter part doesn't get all weird and crystal-y like some lesser quality ice creams and if you give it a few minutes the whole pint softens up to the perfect consistency so you don't bust a thumb trying to scoop out giant soup-spoonfuls like I do.
One warning: be careful how much you eat or you'll numb your face then you can't perform certain things when a certain someone wants to do certain acts in the bedroom. Otherwise go for it. You can go here to find out if your area has this sex in a freezer.
2. Berkshire Serasoft Blanket
If you want the softest, nummiest blankie to wrap yourself in through these up and coming chilly months this is the one you should have.
It's so soft you might think you've been draped with a hundred baby's asses. Wait, that sounded better in my head. A hundred kitten skins. Eesh, that's no better. Something super soft that you'd want to have wrapped around your body making you feel like angels are gently kissing your face and world peace is at hand. There we go.
I don't know what kind of sent-from-the-heavens this fabric is, (and if it's made from recycled toilet seats taken from rent-a-johns just leave that tidbit of trivia to yourself), but it's magical. It will keep the nightmares at bay and warm your freezing toes and gently lick your boom boom down.
I have 2 of these since the (fucking) cat knows when I'm thinking about possibly considering taking a nap and parks her fat ass on top of my special blankets proceding to litter her fur all over the damn place therefore I needed a spare. I've seen them at a few different stores but mine came from Linens-n-Things who sometimes gives out coupons since the bigger sizes can sting your wallet. But I implore you to go buy one today. You won't be disappointed.
2. Origins Ginger Essence Fragrance Spray
My good friend H. turned me on to this and whitey was the awesome boyfriend that he is and got it for me for Christmas last year. It's a delightfully light sent with a tangy kick to it and won't choke the living shit out of everyone in a 10 foot fucking radius like the cheap swill one of my co-workers insists on drowning her fat ass in every morning. Ahem.
The bottle is a nice size and shape even if the weird little mushroom cap doesn't stay on very well. I know the one I have wasn't very expensive but Origin's online store has it listed at about $40, which still isn't too bad considering I paid $75 for the smallest thing of Michael Kors. You will smell good and it'll make you happy. I promise.
4. Nikon D50 Digital SLR Camera
I can't tell you how much I love this camera. Sometimes I want to fuck it. But that'll mess up the lens and I have a hard enough time keeping that thing clean as it is.
It's a bit weighty but I've gotten used to it and when my carpal tunneled hand gives out I take a break. It's super duper easy to use and takes kickass mother effing pictures, if I do say so myself. And it comes with a digital program that allows you to quickly and easily enhance any picture you think might need it, like a pro in a dark room. And my best friend Matt says it's totally not cheating to do that so it's OK.
For a mid-range digital that has lots of bells-and-whistles and capabilities I don't think it's that expensive, but it is in the $600 range and more if you buy is with a lens kit. I was lucky to get a free digital lens to go with mine so look for deals coming out for the holidays. Also, it's compatible with most regular film 35 mm camera lenses so you can collect digital lenses when you want to. If you like to take pictures I highly recommend this camera. It really is worth every penny I spent. Clicky.
5. NBC's Heroes
Clearly this years Lost, Heroes is weird and quirky and spooky and man, are we totally sucked in. Unlike Lost, which is losing us because fucking hell, resolve something will you?, Hero's has less characters to keep track of and parses out more answers to go with their clues. So I'm much less annoyed and very much intrigued.
I won't give up on my Jack Shephard, and really there's no competition because they're on 2 different nights, but Heroes is turning my head and quick. If you're into comic books and supernatural stuff and decent acting, then check this out. If you've missed any episodes or want a taste you can download them here.
And remember, save the cheerleader, save the world.
Enjoy!
I dig the shopping blogs I already know about and have entertained the thought of doing one myself, but that would take, like, effort and stuff and hrm, it would be, like, hard. In the meantime, check these out.
1. Ben & Jerry's Brownie Batter Ice Cream
Let's start with some medicine, shall we? When you're mood is dislocated and your brain is warped and you need to apply direct pressure on your soul, take 2 of these and call me in the morning. Well, maybe not 2 because they do pack a wallop in the calorie department but they're less fattening than Haagen daz and they have cuter packaging.
This. Shit. Rocks. If you're a batter eater like me you'll appreciate the luscious vein of ooey gooey brownie fornicating the middle of the rich, chocolate ice cream. The batter part doesn't get all weird and crystal-y like some lesser quality ice creams and if you give it a few minutes the whole pint softens up to the perfect consistency so you don't bust a thumb trying to scoop out giant soup-spoonfuls like I do.
One warning: be careful how much you eat or you'll numb your face then you can't perform certain things when a certain someone wants to do certain acts in the bedroom. Otherwise go for it. You can go here to find out if your area has this sex in a freezer.
2. Berkshire Serasoft Blanket
If you want the softest, nummiest blankie to wrap yourself in through these up and coming chilly months this is the one you should have.
It's so soft you might think you've been draped with a hundred baby's asses. Wait, that sounded better in my head. A hundred kitten skins. Eesh, that's no better. Something super soft that you'd want to have wrapped around your body making you feel like angels are gently kissing your face and world peace is at hand. There we go.
I don't know what kind of sent-from-the-heavens this fabric is, (and if it's made from recycled toilet seats taken from rent-a-johns just leave that tidbit of trivia to yourself), but it's magical. It will keep the nightmares at bay and warm your freezing toes and gently lick your boom boom down.
I have 2 of these since the (fucking) cat knows when I'm thinking about possibly considering taking a nap and parks her fat ass on top of my special blankets proceding to litter her fur all over the damn place therefore I needed a spare. I've seen them at a few different stores but mine came from Linens-n-Things who sometimes gives out coupons since the bigger sizes can sting your wallet. But I implore you to go buy one today. You won't be disappointed.
2. Origins Ginger Essence Fragrance Spray
My good friend H. turned me on to this and whitey was the awesome boyfriend that he is and got it for me for Christmas last year. It's a delightfully light sent with a tangy kick to it and won't choke the living shit out of everyone in a 10 foot fucking radius like the cheap swill one of my co-workers insists on drowning her fat ass in every morning. Ahem.
The bottle is a nice size and shape even if the weird little mushroom cap doesn't stay on very well. I know the one I have wasn't very expensive but Origin's online store has it listed at about $40, which still isn't too bad considering I paid $75 for the smallest thing of Michael Kors. You will smell good and it'll make you happy. I promise.
4. Nikon D50 Digital SLR Camera
I can't tell you how much I love this camera. Sometimes I want to fuck it. But that'll mess up the lens and I have a hard enough time keeping that thing clean as it is.
It's a bit weighty but I've gotten used to it and when my carpal tunneled hand gives out I take a break. It's super duper easy to use and takes kickass mother effing pictures, if I do say so myself. And it comes with a digital program that allows you to quickly and easily enhance any picture you think might need it, like a pro in a dark room. And my best friend Matt says it's totally not cheating to do that so it's OK.
For a mid-range digital that has lots of bells-and-whistles and capabilities I don't think it's that expensive, but it is in the $600 range and more if you buy is with a lens kit. I was lucky to get a free digital lens to go with mine so look for deals coming out for the holidays. Also, it's compatible with most regular film 35 mm camera lenses so you can collect digital lenses when you want to. If you like to take pictures I highly recommend this camera. It really is worth every penny I spent. Clicky.
5. NBC's Heroes
Clearly this years Lost, Heroes is weird and quirky and spooky and man, are we totally sucked in. Unlike Lost, which is losing us because fucking hell, resolve something will you?, Hero's has less characters to keep track of and parses out more answers to go with their clues. So I'm much less annoyed and very much intrigued.
I won't give up on my Jack Shephard, and really there's no competition because they're on 2 different nights, but Heroes is turning my head and quick. If you're into comic books and supernatural stuff and decent acting, then check this out. If you've missed any episodes or want a taste you can download them here.
And remember, save the cheerleader, save the world.
Enjoy!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
And we're off
Nablopomo - day one. I'm actually looking forward to writing every day for the entire month of November. Of course with my track record of being completely in love with something one day and hating it with a white hot passion the next is legendary so ask me again in a few days how I'm feeling about it because while today there is love, next week there could be hate. We shall see.
For the first time in a long time I'm glad to be done with Halloween. It's usually my favorite holiday since I'm a horror movie connoisseur and any excuse to dress up in a creative costume is a good time in my book. Unfortunately for the last 4 years I've been a recluse in my house either too lethargic to party or haven't been invited to any. (Fuck you to all of my friends.)
At first it didn't bother me and it was kind of fun to be the adult handing out candy to the little ones, watching the costume trends each year (thank gawd the Brittany singing slut phase is over) and putting myself into a diabetic coma stealing 184 fun-size snickers bars then dishing out handfuls of candy at the end of the night to excited and thankful munchkins totally scoring at the cool chicks house.
Well, those friggen days are over.
Now Halloween has turned into a spastic night of rushing around and sitting in fuckass traffic because it's only been daylight savings for a couple of days and great Odin's raven everyone in the world has forgotten how to fucking drive with the sun going down A WHOLE HOUR EARLIER and I find myself fretting and rushing and freaking out that I'm not going to get home in time to give out goodies or I'll possibly rip a cute kid off as they stand at un-opening door or spend the next 4 days scraping rotting eggs off my windows because my house sucked.
And to be even dumber, this year I decided to wait until Halloween night to buy my truckload of chocolate so it wouldn't be in the house and continually call to me with its evil, melodious voice to eaaaaattttt mmmmeeeeee. Which is a stupid plan anyway because I manage to have a pretty hefty supply of chocolate on hand at all times so who gives a fuck if there's whole bags at my disposal when I still eat chocolate every day anyway??
As it turned out, I doubly ripped myself off because the store I went to didn't have any of my Halloween favorites (100 Grand bar oh how I love thee) and I was forced to munch on mini Crunches with caramel (not too bad but I do not like soupy caramel that pours out all over my chin, it's gross), Reeses' sticks (sticks? who the fuck thought that up?), Butter fingers (these have paid for my dentists (is there supposed to be an apostrophe in there? I don't know) Lexus), something called S'mores (which should be called S'mawfuls because they were), and the only decent thing left, Milky Ways. Of which I only ate 1, 2, OK, 3.
Every year it's the same thing. I race home, change into something comfy, rip open the bags of candy and throw them in a bowl, get all settled on the couch when the doorbell rings and I feel like I can't get into anything because I'm up down up down and what do I do if I run out of candy and how late are these kids gonna prowl the neighborhood anyway? And where's the cat? Don't let the cat out! And should I even try to eat dinner or will I be passing out treats with a mouthful of Cesar salad? Gah. The pressure!
After I calmed the fuck down the night went OK. We put Rascal in the bedroom where she was actually happier since the front door never opens that many times in one day and she had a look on her face like we were surely letting an array of cat-eating monsters into the house. The kids were coming in infrequent but medium sized groups and all were saying their thanks yous, although one rug rat did give me a rather sarcastic trick-or-treat early on and proceeded to yell "break the door down" when he found my neighbors bell unanswered. Little thug.
I was glad to see everyone dressed up and some of my favorites were a totally cute young teenage girl made up like Elphaba from the muscial Wicked, which we had a 2 second bonding moment over, a zombie yellow M-n-M (why do kids insist on turning every damn innocuous character into a zombie?) and by far my favorite of the night, a 6 foot-plus teenage boy dressed as a giant penguin complete with red bow-tie and beaked hat. There's no way you could be annoyed at an older kid when seeing that standing in your doorway.
Things became quiet and we thought we were done being Willy Wonka for the night and got the DVD of An American Haunting ready to go but before we could hit play we heard some chatter outside and the doorbell rang again. It was almost 8:00 and I thought to myself, wtf, it's a little late, but whatever.
I opened to the door to see exactly what I was hoping I wouldn't. A group of snotty kids jamming themselves into my doorway none of which wore costumes. They were dressed in ratty sweats and shoving their pillow cases at me while muttering some half-hearted something-or-other.
And may I digress for one moment? Thank you. Just what is the thing with the pillow cases? In my day it was something our older brothers carried because they were maniac treaters who were allowed to stay out later than the rest of us and had the wherewithal and stamina to trek the 10 square miles of our large suburban area to practically fill those things to the brim then made assloads of cash selling off their booty for 2 weeks.
But from the evidence at my threshold last night darn near every damn kid is now dragging a pillow case around and it doesn't have any more candy in it than the 3 year-old Buzz Lightyear with the pumpkin bucket and Frankenstein head flashlight!
Why the 4 yards of fabric dead cheerleader? How many mini butterfingers do you think you'll be seeing hand-me-down ninja? Just what kind of haul do you think you're going to get in our small condo community tiny spiderman? Nothing near the magnitude of fekking bedclothes, I tell you what.
So, the late-comer hooligans are clamoring towards my candy bowl and as the one pushy boy practically tore my screen door off he blurted "we're the last ones so can we have it all?" Are you fucking kidding me? Listen, you little shit, it's hard enough for me to purchase half a metric ton of chocolate then give it away but you need to be reminded that for you it's FREE, as in YOU DIDN'T PAY FOR IT AND A STRANGER DID. A stranger who's opening her door to kids she doesn't know and giving them stuff FOR FREE.
Of course I said no and Mr. Party Pooper grumbled that he'd been ripped off after I gave him 2 pieces instead of the 3 I'd been giving everyone all night. Then another twerp in the group watches me put 2 pieces in her case and says "can I have more?". Wha wha Huh? COME ON!
What a bunch of greedy bastards!
I again said no and she turned on her heels without so much as a thanks. The last little girl looked sweet enough and I can't even remember if she said anything pleasing but she certainly didn't say anything assholish either so I dumped the rest of the bowl in her sack and told her she got it all because she didn't beg. I finally got a thank you out of that one and she went skipping past her companions sing-songing "I got the re-est because I didn't bay-egg" which finally made me smile. Little fuckers.
And where were all of these kids parents?? I didn't see a single one all night.
After that disappointing ending we turned off the lights and watched the scary movie that was mostly boring and a little confusing but had one scene that made me jump 3 feet vertically off the couch causing whitey to laugh at me for 5 minutes because he enjoys it when I piss my pants. (He is also a little fucker.) I don't recommend it unless you want to see Donald Sutherland get paid for not acting and copious scenes of raping ghosts. Although Sissy Spacek did a perfect Carrie face circa 1976 which was awesomely spooky.
Next year we're going out. And I might bring a pillow sham. Just in case.
p.s.
Dear Makers of Starburst:
Although I'm not a huge fan of the non-cocoa variety candy I am a consumer of most things made from sugar and on occasion will enjoy one of your sweet confections, even though if you don't chew them into oblivion it's like trying to swallow a hunk of half-solidified Elmer's glue with flavor.
Today as I was sneaking around the office hoping to pilfer some Halloween left-overs I was only able to come upon a bowl of your fruity chews. As I was jonesing for a high fructose corn syrup buzz I gladly grabbed a couple of Starburst duos.
I must tell you, whoever came up with the strawberry/watermelon combo should be at the least demoted to a position that does not require any heavy decision-making or involvement with the flavor process whatsoever. Middle management perhaps?
Even though those two tastes are delightful on their own, whatever you did to marry them into a single property is akin to, at best, a solid chunk of shower gel or a rancid piece of 10 year-old Hubba Bubba that offended my entire salivation system and tricked my senses causing my gag reflex to initiate making my head snap and my eyes water and most of the liquefied contents to shoot up the back of sinus and into my brain.
The result being that I nearly choked to death in a cubicle which is, in my opinion, one of the saddest most pathetic places to expire and I've had the misfortune of tasting the foul brew for the rest of the day.
However, your Aztec Punch Chew is delightful even though the name is gay.
Sincerely,
Betty
For the first time in a long time I'm glad to be done with Halloween. It's usually my favorite holiday since I'm a horror movie connoisseur and any excuse to dress up in a creative costume is a good time in my book. Unfortunately for the last 4 years I've been a recluse in my house either too lethargic to party or haven't been invited to any. (Fuck you to all of my friends.)
At first it didn't bother me and it was kind of fun to be the adult handing out candy to the little ones, watching the costume trends each year (thank gawd the Brittany singing slut phase is over) and putting myself into a diabetic coma stealing 184 fun-size snickers bars then dishing out handfuls of candy at the end of the night to excited and thankful munchkins totally scoring at the cool chicks house.
Well, those friggen days are over.
Now Halloween has turned into a spastic night of rushing around and sitting in fuckass traffic because it's only been daylight savings for a couple of days and great Odin's raven everyone in the world has forgotten how to fucking drive with the sun going down A WHOLE HOUR EARLIER and I find myself fretting and rushing and freaking out that I'm not going to get home in time to give out goodies or I'll possibly rip a cute kid off as they stand at un-opening door or spend the next 4 days scraping rotting eggs off my windows because my house sucked.
And to be even dumber, this year I decided to wait until Halloween night to buy my truckload of chocolate so it wouldn't be in the house and continually call to me with its evil, melodious voice to eaaaaattttt mmmmeeeeee. Which is a stupid plan anyway because I manage to have a pretty hefty supply of chocolate on hand at all times so who gives a fuck if there's whole bags at my disposal when I still eat chocolate every day anyway??
As it turned out, I doubly ripped myself off because the store I went to didn't have any of my Halloween favorites (100 Grand bar oh how I love thee) and I was forced to munch on mini Crunches with caramel (not too bad but I do not like soupy caramel that pours out all over my chin, it's gross), Reeses' sticks (sticks? who the fuck thought that up?), Butter fingers (these have paid for my dentists (is there supposed to be an apostrophe in there? I don't know) Lexus), something called S'mores (which should be called S'mawfuls because they were), and the only decent thing left, Milky Ways. Of which I only ate 1, 2, OK, 3.
Every year it's the same thing. I race home, change into something comfy, rip open the bags of candy and throw them in a bowl, get all settled on the couch when the doorbell rings and I feel like I can't get into anything because I'm up down up down and what do I do if I run out of candy and how late are these kids gonna prowl the neighborhood anyway? And where's the cat? Don't let the cat out! And should I even try to eat dinner or will I be passing out treats with a mouthful of Cesar salad? Gah. The pressure!
After I calmed the fuck down the night went OK. We put Rascal in the bedroom where she was actually happier since the front door never opens that many times in one day and she had a look on her face like we were surely letting an array of cat-eating monsters into the house. The kids were coming in infrequent but medium sized groups and all were saying their thanks yous, although one rug rat did give me a rather sarcastic trick-or-treat early on and proceeded to yell "break the door down" when he found my neighbors bell unanswered. Little thug.
I was glad to see everyone dressed up and some of my favorites were a totally cute young teenage girl made up like Elphaba from the muscial Wicked, which we had a 2 second bonding moment over, a zombie yellow M-n-M (why do kids insist on turning every damn innocuous character into a zombie?) and by far my favorite of the night, a 6 foot-plus teenage boy dressed as a giant penguin complete with red bow-tie and beaked hat. There's no way you could be annoyed at an older kid when seeing that standing in your doorway.
Things became quiet and we thought we were done being Willy Wonka for the night and got the DVD of An American Haunting ready to go but before we could hit play we heard some chatter outside and the doorbell rang again. It was almost 8:00 and I thought to myself, wtf, it's a little late, but whatever.
I opened to the door to see exactly what I was hoping I wouldn't. A group of snotty kids jamming themselves into my doorway none of which wore costumes. They were dressed in ratty sweats and shoving their pillow cases at me while muttering some half-hearted something-or-other.
And may I digress for one moment? Thank you. Just what is the thing with the pillow cases? In my day it was something our older brothers carried because they were maniac treaters who were allowed to stay out later than the rest of us and had the wherewithal and stamina to trek the 10 square miles of our large suburban area to practically fill those things to the brim then made assloads of cash selling off their booty for 2 weeks.
But from the evidence at my threshold last night darn near every damn kid is now dragging a pillow case around and it doesn't have any more candy in it than the 3 year-old Buzz Lightyear with the pumpkin bucket and Frankenstein head flashlight!
Why the 4 yards of fabric dead cheerleader? How many mini butterfingers do you think you'll be seeing hand-me-down ninja? Just what kind of haul do you think you're going to get in our small condo community tiny spiderman? Nothing near the magnitude of fekking bedclothes, I tell you what.
So, the late-comer hooligans are clamoring towards my candy bowl and as the one pushy boy practically tore my screen door off he blurted "we're the last ones so can we have it all?" Are you fucking kidding me? Listen, you little shit, it's hard enough for me to purchase half a metric ton of chocolate then give it away but you need to be reminded that for you it's FREE, as in YOU DIDN'T PAY FOR IT AND A STRANGER DID. A stranger who's opening her door to kids she doesn't know and giving them stuff FOR FREE.
Of course I said no and Mr. Party Pooper grumbled that he'd been ripped off after I gave him 2 pieces instead of the 3 I'd been giving everyone all night. Then another twerp in the group watches me put 2 pieces in her case and says "can I have more?". Wha wha Huh? COME ON!
What a bunch of greedy bastards!
I again said no and she turned on her heels without so much as a thanks. The last little girl looked sweet enough and I can't even remember if she said anything pleasing but she certainly didn't say anything assholish either so I dumped the rest of the bowl in her sack and told her she got it all because she didn't beg. I finally got a thank you out of that one and she went skipping past her companions sing-songing "I got the re-est because I didn't bay-egg" which finally made me smile. Little fuckers.
And where were all of these kids parents?? I didn't see a single one all night.
After that disappointing ending we turned off the lights and watched the scary movie that was mostly boring and a little confusing but had one scene that made me jump 3 feet vertically off the couch causing whitey to laugh at me for 5 minutes because he enjoys it when I piss my pants. (He is also a little fucker.) I don't recommend it unless you want to see Donald Sutherland get paid for not acting and copious scenes of raping ghosts. Although Sissy Spacek did a perfect Carrie face circa 1976 which was awesomely spooky.
Next year we're going out. And I might bring a pillow sham. Just in case.
p.s.
Dear Makers of Starburst:
Although I'm not a huge fan of the non-cocoa variety candy I am a consumer of most things made from sugar and on occasion will enjoy one of your sweet confections, even though if you don't chew them into oblivion it's like trying to swallow a hunk of half-solidified Elmer's glue with flavor.
Today as I was sneaking around the office hoping to pilfer some Halloween left-overs I was only able to come upon a bowl of your fruity chews. As I was jonesing for a high fructose corn syrup buzz I gladly grabbed a couple of Starburst duos.
I must tell you, whoever came up with the strawberry/watermelon combo should be at the least demoted to a position that does not require any heavy decision-making or involvement with the flavor process whatsoever. Middle management perhaps?
Even though those two tastes are delightful on their own, whatever you did to marry them into a single property is akin to, at best, a solid chunk of shower gel or a rancid piece of 10 year-old Hubba Bubba that offended my entire salivation system and tricked my senses causing my gag reflex to initiate making my head snap and my eyes water and most of the liquefied contents to shoot up the back of sinus and into my brain.
The result being that I nearly choked to death in a cubicle which is, in my opinion, one of the saddest most pathetic places to expire and I've had the misfortune of tasting the foul brew for the rest of the day.
However, your Aztec Punch Chew is delightful even though the name is gay.
Sincerely,
Betty
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
My lil punkin
Thursday, October 26, 2006
This, that and the other thing
Well, my brain is dead again. I've had a couple days of Hormone Storm or carbohydrate poisoning or some such ailment that rendered me anxiety-ridden with a dash of depression and a side of discontented confusion. (I was almost going to use the much overused word ennui but as I mentioned it's overused and frankly I hate it. Sounds like an infected body part south of the border and I ain't talkin' 'bout Mexico.)
I was very, very, very pissy and found myself flipping someone off in my car because I let them merge and they didn't give me the courtesy wave. I got mad at an admired journaler for crabbing on their blog about a personal problem then I got irritated at someone else for writing about being happy. I called Oprah a bitch and made my cat barf by forcing her to wear a lobster costume on her head. Tuesday I couldn't face the world and called in sick and spent a good part of the day in bed. It was all very upsetting, especially for the cat.
I will spare you the dirty details of my current stupid stresses since it would sound retarded anyway and every time I try to start an entry about all of this melodramatic heavy shit weighing on my soul, oh how melodramatic, it comes out like blah bleh why ah! fart poop cry. Which makes sense inside my head but loses something in the translation, no?
I can't seem to find a consistent voice and I'm comparing myself to others who manage to put coherent thoughts on fancy pages for people to read so, in conclusion, I am an asshole. At least that's how I feel right now.
There are so many changes I need to make right now. Big, huge, looming changes that look like a gigantic monster who's going to gobble up my head then spit its chewed remains onto the floor. Intellectually these changes are good ones. They're important and have to be done. But it's scary and stressful and as much as I hate my feet standing in quick-set cement it seems harder to move forward than wear a pair of cinderblock sandal's.
I hate change. Change to me usually equals bad. I'm a creature of psychotic habit. I don't even like to change pens as it takes me days to get used to a new one and my gawd you cannot expect me to switch from a black ballpoint to a blue uniball all willy-nilly and without properly going through the 5 stages of grief. Christ. Am I a robot? No.
This cute little idiosuckcracy has plagued me since I was conceived or shortly before that. My mother still likes to tell the story (with rolling eyes) of when I was 5 1/2 and it had been decided (for me) that in anticipation of a move from one city to another, and with my entrance into first grade coming up, that I would graduate from a twin mattress to a full. The day the swap was made I sadly stood on the driveway with giant tears rolling down my fat face watching the mattress men take my baby bed away because I was so attached to a hunk of cloth and springs I had a full-scale meltdown.
Right now I have much more than a bed to say goodbye to. We've decided to move. Move away from my home of 36 years. The whole of my conscious life has been spent in San Diego, with the exception of attending 3 years of college in Pomona, a whole 100 miles away, this is all I've known. My familiar space. My identity.
Most of the time I know deep down in the smart part of me that this is a good thing. A necessary thing. An inevitable thing. But there are times when it goes beyond an intelligent idea shooting right past an exciting plan into a terrifying thought of very bad badness and then it eats my face off. Just trying to decide when to visit our city of choice, in another state, to hopefully get the good vibes I need to make the final decision made me nearly self-combust.
Bah.
I wish I was more brave. I wish I had bigger balls. I wish I wasn't such an asshole.
While I'm trying to sort these things out I thought it would be a good idea to expose myself to more self-doubt and stress by joining this awesome idea by the lovely Eden of Fussy. (I'd add this as a side-bar tag thingy but I can't fucking figure out how to do that.)
She's brilliant and I'd like to swap lives with her for a weekend except she has a little boy and he shouldn't be exposed to an asshole like me. I guess I'll have to settle with pushing myself by writing every single day for the month of November and trying not to cheat and hopefully entertaining all 4 of you at the same time.
And there's potential prizes involved! Which always turns me from an everyday asshole into a competitive SUPER asshole. You should see me at baby showers. I will take home that travel shower gel kit with the matching loofah at all costs. I don't care if you're giving birth in a month. Who's idea was it to play a game of arm-wrestle the preggo anyway? I did what I had to do.
Because...I am an asshole.
I was very, very, very pissy and found myself flipping someone off in my car because I let them merge and they didn't give me the courtesy wave. I got mad at an admired journaler for crabbing on their blog about a personal problem then I got irritated at someone else for writing about being happy. I called Oprah a bitch and made my cat barf by forcing her to wear a lobster costume on her head. Tuesday I couldn't face the world and called in sick and spent a good part of the day in bed. It was all very upsetting, especially for the cat.
I will spare you the dirty details of my current stupid stresses since it would sound retarded anyway and every time I try to start an entry about all of this melodramatic heavy shit weighing on my soul, oh how melodramatic, it comes out like blah bleh why ah! fart poop cry. Which makes sense inside my head but loses something in the translation, no?
I can't seem to find a consistent voice and I'm comparing myself to others who manage to put coherent thoughts on fancy pages for people to read so, in conclusion, I am an asshole. At least that's how I feel right now.
There are so many changes I need to make right now. Big, huge, looming changes that look like a gigantic monster who's going to gobble up my head then spit its chewed remains onto the floor. Intellectually these changes are good ones. They're important and have to be done. But it's scary and stressful and as much as I hate my feet standing in quick-set cement it seems harder to move forward than wear a pair of cinderblock sandal's.
I hate change. Change to me usually equals bad. I'm a creature of psychotic habit. I don't even like to change pens as it takes me days to get used to a new one and my gawd you cannot expect me to switch from a black ballpoint to a blue uniball all willy-nilly and without properly going through the 5 stages of grief. Christ. Am I a robot? No.
This cute little idiosuckcracy has plagued me since I was conceived or shortly before that. My mother still likes to tell the story (with rolling eyes) of when I was 5 1/2 and it had been decided (for me) that in anticipation of a move from one city to another, and with my entrance into first grade coming up, that I would graduate from a twin mattress to a full. The day the swap was made I sadly stood on the driveway with giant tears rolling down my fat face watching the mattress men take my baby bed away because I was so attached to a hunk of cloth and springs I had a full-scale meltdown.
Right now I have much more than a bed to say goodbye to. We've decided to move. Move away from my home of 36 years. The whole of my conscious life has been spent in San Diego, with the exception of attending 3 years of college in Pomona, a whole 100 miles away, this is all I've known. My familiar space. My identity.
Most of the time I know deep down in the smart part of me that this is a good thing. A necessary thing. An inevitable thing. But there are times when it goes beyond an intelligent idea shooting right past an exciting plan into a terrifying thought of very bad badness and then it eats my face off. Just trying to decide when to visit our city of choice, in another state, to hopefully get the good vibes I need to make the final decision made me nearly self-combust.
Bah.
I wish I was more brave. I wish I had bigger balls. I wish I wasn't such an asshole.
While I'm trying to sort these things out I thought it would be a good idea to expose myself to more self-doubt and stress by joining this awesome idea by the lovely Eden of Fussy. (I'd add this as a side-bar tag thingy but I can't fucking figure out how to do that.)
She's brilliant and I'd like to swap lives with her for a weekend except she has a little boy and he shouldn't be exposed to an asshole like me. I guess I'll have to settle with pushing myself by writing every single day for the month of November and trying not to cheat and hopefully entertaining all 4 of you at the same time.
And there's potential prizes involved! Which always turns me from an everyday asshole into a competitive SUPER asshole. You should see me at baby showers. I will take home that travel shower gel kit with the matching loofah at all costs. I don't care if you're giving birth in a month. Who's idea was it to play a game of arm-wrestle the preggo anyway? I did what I had to do.
Because...I am an asshole.
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